


Portrait of a Chiss on Fire

by oracular_vernacular



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Art Enthusiast Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Artist!Reader, BIG thraddy hours, Bottom!Reader, Eventual Smut, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, but like lowkey poly, lowkey xeno, no gendered pronouns or titles for reader, supportive poly boyfriend eli, watch me make up a bunch of shit about art history in star wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oracular_vernacular/pseuds/oracular_vernacular
Summary: You had painted so many of the greatest officers in the Empire, but none of them were like him.
Relationships: Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Reader
Comments: 250
Kudos: 212





	1. preliminary study

It was high noon on Coruscant, and in the upper levels that meant brilliant sunlight streaming in through vaulted glass windows that made their way up onto the ceiling as well. The glow of it was amplified by the clean white walls of permacrete; where light was not being let in, it was still being reflected so as to cast subtle, rich shadows on everything inside the studio. 

Nevermind the disarray also caught in its gentle glare. All artists were like this, or so the ancient saying went. Typically you didn’t feel worried about the ceaseless, shifting mass of materials and half-finished pieces and failed or abandoned experiments in your creative space. There was no shame in being this way, it didn’t bother you, and nobody could argue with the results. 

But, when a famous Grand Admiral was less than fifteen standard minutes from ringing your doorbell and absolutely nothing was set up, _that_ was the sort of time when you did curse the chaos all over the studio that seemed to respawn no matter how many times you tidied up. 

“Oh, kriffing hell,” you spat, growling to yourself. “Why would I not put the kriffing turpentine back where it _always_ goes? Why _now?_ ” 

It wasn’t always like this, you told yourself. Once, when your career as the esteemed Artist Laureate of the Galactic Empire was in its bud, you’d had your shit together most of the time. But as the years went on, and the subjects of your official portraits became less and less likely to have a… _profoundly_ negative response to your struggle to maintain professionalism, you’d fallen out of good habits. This was the first assignment you’d had in almost three standard months; apparently enough time to forget you had a job altogether, at least when it came to timeliness and preparation.

At least you had a board ready, sent by one of the Admiral’s aids. A truly beautiful slab of wroshyr tree, so beautiful in fact that you were almost loath to cover the strange, ethereal ripples of the botanical crown jewel of Kashyyyk in anything but a light stain and a few layers of polyurethane. The damn thing belonged on a dining table, or a very grand desk. But it was what you’d been given, and so it was what you’d prepped. 

Choosing your base layer colors had totally slipped your mind; now you found yourself scrambling to pluck a few cool tones from the peg board that ran along one of the walls of the studio. There was newsprint all over the floor by the paints— Maker knew _why—_ and all the graphite and charcoal dust that had spent the last few months gathering on the worn-in gray permacrete of the floor was now sticking to the soles of your bare feet and leaving prints on the thin paper. Just as you were muttering under your breath about if it really mattered if you chose phthalo blue or prussian blue, the chime that meant your client was here rang.

_Kriff._

“Grand Admiral Thrawn is here to begin your session, Laureate,” said the protocol droid over the wall commlink. You went over to the wall, clutching a few tubes of paint in the crook of your elbow as you pressed the button on the panel. 

“Just a moment!” you sang, voice full of hollow cheerfulness.

“It would be wise not to keep the Grand Admiral waiting,” the droid said. But you were already skipping away, pulling almost every clean brush you had (and a few that were not clean at all) out of the turpentine filter and chucking them into a few metal cups before abandoning everything you’d managed to gather at your easel. The chime rang out again.

“Laureate, I am escorting the Grand Admiral upstairs to your studio. He is on a tight schedule.” 

_Kriffing protocol droids._ You scuttled back over to the panel on the wall and pressed the button again. 

“That’s quite alright, show him in!” You were very nearly out of breath just from the mad dashing about and you still had no idea where the fresh turp was, sticking your head under a nearby shelf that was laden with watercolor palettes to look. But it wasn’t anywhere, and you were approaching too flustered to even be sure you were seeing properly anyway. 

Then, you heard it. The sound that meant that the front door was opening, and the Grand Admiral was now in the foyer of the studio. The droids could and would walk your high profile clients right into the space whether it was locked or unlocked, with or without your permission— such was one of the caveats of being the Artist Laureate. You paused, listening.

A strange voice was trading phrases with the tinny words of the droid. Soft, with a slightly higher pitch; too high, like it was covering a much lower tessitura only to be polite. Who was this Admiral again— Thrawn? Where had you heard his name before? 

There was nothing for it. He was here, and you had to receive him _now._ So, without allowing one more thought to stress or confuse you, you strode into the foyer with steps that tried to leave your mild panic behind. Tried, if only because there was a new panic awaiting as soon as they reached their destination.

If his voice caught your curiosity, the sight of him actually caused you to freeze on the spot.

He was tall, first of all; a difficult thing not to notice in any being. But more than that, his very presence was towering. He seemed perfectly at ease in your sparse little foyer, comfortable as if he belonged there or anywhere else he stood. His Grand Admiral’s uniform was crisp and white, and it was the perfect compliment for his deep blue skin. His hair was black, slicked neatly away from his angular, handsome face. But it was his eyes that caught you. They were not just red, but _glowing;_ a soft emanation that only barely betrayed where his pupils might be looking at a given time. 

You knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that at that particular moment he was looking directly at you.

“Grand Admiral, this is our esteemed Artist Laureate,” said the protocol droid, holding out a shiny silver arm by way of introduction. You knew where you’d heard Thrawn’s name before, now. Mostly from the babbling rumors that always trickled down from High Command or the Imperial Academy through bars and other social hubs, rumors that sometimes were wholly without substance. But the ones about this man in particular were colorful enough that they almost rang possible; inventing such scenarios seemed beyond the reach of even the most irreverent of storytellers under the watchful eye of the Empire. 

You’d forgotten just how important this man was. And here you were, with no shoes on and wearing a shabby, wrinkled button-front shirt covered in paint stains and rolled up at the sleeves. There was no telling how much disarray the rest of you was in after zooming around the studio like an agitated loth-cat. You wondered distantly if he was going to be the client who, at last, took enough issue with your general state of pandemonium to have you fired and sent back to the lower levels, dooming you to draw caricatures at street festivals until your wrist pain became too much to bear and you were forced to take out a mortgage on a cybernetic hand.

“Excellent,” Thrawn said, interrupting your thoughts with a cool smile on his face. “I’m most pleased to meet you, Laureate.”

He did not seem to be on the verge of expunging you from the Imperial payroll yet, at least. You realized as you tried to answer that your guts were tied in knots.

“Thank you, Grand Admiral,” you said, not sure if you should bow or nod or shake his hand. “If you, um, will just follow me into the studio, we can get started.”

“Of course.” 

It took you a moment to wrench yourself from his rather inscrutable gaze, pivot on your feet, and march right back into the maelstrom from whence you came. His footsteps behind you were as crisp as his uniform, and you prayed he’d bothered with a good tailor. If his pant legs were too long, the hems were guaranteed to be covered in charcoal before he got halfway to the easel.

Of course, walking towards the spot you’d picked in the rather lovely filtered midday light, you realized you hadn’t even gotten a chair for the Admiral yet. 

“Um, would you prefer a stool or a chair with some back support? Sir?” Maker alive, protocol was all but an afterthought. _Get it together before you get canned for being too true to type!_

“A stool is fine. I will be sure to be attentive to my posture,” he replied from behind you. So, you shuffled over to one of the errant stools that dotted the studio and placed it in front and just to the side of your easel. Turning towards him, you realized that he’d stopped to look around.

 _Kriff, please don’t do that,_ you thought desperately. There was no reading the man’s face. Was he displeased with the mess? Passingly curious? Bemused? Logging every detail in his head so he could file a report about it later? There were no reports about messy official artists that you were aware of, but Maker knew a Grand Admiral could invent whatever form he wanted to, if the mood struck. 

But, even as he was looking about and agitating your anxiety, you found yourself admiring his face. His brow was a little heavier than a human’s, not ogreish but actually rather regal. His cheekbones could cut transparisteel, and his jaw too. The color of his skin was the real thing that had you thinking. You glanced between the man and your peg board full of paint tubes. 

“Um, sir? Do you mind if I swap out these paints I chose? Now that I see you in proper light, I think I might choose differently,” you found yourself asking. Frankly, you hadn’t remembered at all that his skin was supposed to be blue until you’d clapped eyes on him moments ago, but he didn’t need to know that.

His red eyes found you again. “Why, certainly. I trust you to know your materials.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You made your way over to the peg board, plucking only one more blue from it, followed by a couple of purples, a wine red, and a burnt sienna brown. At that moment, you spotted the metal tub of turpentine you’d been looking for tucked under a stray sheet of crumpled newsprint on the shelf below the paints. Relief washed over you for a moment, and you picked it up with a silent prayer of gratitude before turning to go back to your easel. 

Thrawn was sitting on the stool, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap. He already looked statuesque, really. You crossed in front of him and tugged your own chair up closer to the board. 

Once again, you really did not want to cover that gorgeous, rippling wood grain. It was prepped with clear sealant; perhaps the aversion had infiltrated your subconscious, causing you to err away from traditional white. Glancing between the wood and the man in front of you, you eyed a little white oil pencil that was stuck in one of the nooks built into the easel. 

“Sir, this wood that was sent to me is… well, frankly, it’s much too nice to paint over,” you said, swallowing your nerves. But beauty was _important,_ dammit, beauty that spoke to something much richer than simply what lay on the surface. 

“Is the wroshyr not suitable?” Thrawn asked, but he didn’t seem angry. “I could have another panel sent for.”

“No, no, that’s alright,” you assured him, feeling your cheeks burn a little with embarrassment. Cancelling your entire first session because someone’s aide had sent unreasonably fancy wood seemed ridiculous; plus, you had another idea. “I was wondering if I might just leave the wood grain as the background for your portrait? A little stain on the edges, I think, just to keep it from looking too flat, but otherwise I think it should look really beautiful. A bit unusual maybe, next to the other ones, but still.” 

Thrawn looked at you silently for a moment, and you realized that there were a great many two-hour sessions in your future with those uncanny eyes spearing you while you worked. That sent a shiver down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was good or bad.

“You are the artist. If that is your vision, then I trust you implicitly,” he said at last. 

That came as something of a shock, so much so that you found yourself chuckling with relief and feeling strangely flattered. “Thank you, sir. I wish I heard that from all of my clients, to be honest.” 

“You mean the other officers did not trust you to do your job?” he asked, one brow crooking slightly. That caused an alarm to go off in your head— _no shit talking the other officers!_

“No, I mean…” you stammered, picking up your favorite starting brush and the tube of burnt sienna. “I just… it’s hard sometimes, when people have a very particular image of themselves in their head that they’d like to see represented in their portrait. Even if it’s not what I see, either impression-wise or quite literally not how they _look._ It can take time to… um… adjust, to everyone’s liking.” 

You could feel his eyes on you as you grabbed the white oil pencil to dot a few reference marks lightly on the surface of the wood. Not knowing what this man was thinking was quite possibly going to drive you mad. Quickly, glancing between his silhouette and the board, you mapped out the basic shape his bust would occupy. 

“That’s interesting,” he said softly as you began to thin the burnt sienna with turpentine. “So the artist does not simply reproduce what is seen, in portraiture?” 

“Well, no,” you replied. “A photographer doesn’t, either. Hell, even a holoimager has a perspective of its own. Just, usually that perspective is sort of… blank. Because it’s taken by a droid or a computer that’s not especially attached, or even reacting to its subject.” 

You realized far too late that you were not only talking freely (read: nervously), but you’d also started swearing. To a Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy. 

“I suppose it was a little naive of me to assume that a commissioned portrait would be less personal to the painter than any other subject,” Thrawn mused before you could drown in your apologies. Apparently, he wasn’t concerned at all. “Or, perhaps I simply assumed that because this is a job for you, as opposed to your life’s work.” 

“Well, it _is_ my life’s work whether I like it or not,” you murmured, spreading a thin layer of paint across the board where your silhouette was marked. “Not that I mean to complain,” you added quickly— even though you absolutely _did_ mean to complain, if you were honest— “rather it’s just that I studied the old mediums and materials. For whatever reason, the Empire took a shine to oil painting, and now here I am.”

“It is a rather archaic thing, isn’t it? I admit, I was not very interested in sitting for a portrait when Grand Moff Tarkin suggested it. But then I saw the ones that are already in the gallery inside the palace, and the medium is… quite different from those of any of the planets I’ve studied so far.” 

He’d _studied?_ The Grand Admiral _studied_ art? 

“I didn’t know anybody at High Command was interested in that sort of thing,” you said, your arm paused in its strokes so you could look at him for a moment. Just like you had before when he’d said he trusted you as the artist, you felt strangely flattered again. Though this was much more impersonal, it still made you feel acknowledged, in a way.

“Yes, the role of art in my work is a great deal more important than most military minds would ever give it credit for,” Thrawn replied. “There is much to be learned about the people who created the art, about the cultures that it thrived in.”

“I… I know.” You were a little baffled, and words were forming through a haze of thoughts. “I studied art history as well, before I studied painting itself. I thought I’d be a historian, for a museum or something like that, and paint on the side. But I fell in love with the traditional mediums, so I went back to school to learn them.” 

“Traditional,” he repeated, and for the first time the ghost of a smile crossed over his face. “Ancient, almost legendary, are perhaps more apt words. It was bold of you to delve into such a practice.”

“That’s why I was shocked to land this gig,” you said, resuming your brush strokes, deepening the pigment very strategically. Trying to ignore the sudden warmth on your cheeks because that last sentence could almost have been construed as a compliment. 

“Why do you think the Empire is so enamored with this style of portraiture?” 

You blinked. You had not been prepared to speak even as much as you already had, much less be asked your opinion on such a thing. Speaking about the Empire was ever a loaded subject, and you phrased your response warily. A charge of sedition was not on your agenda for the next… ever.

“I think, um, maybe it was the way the portraits were used in the ancient history of Coruscant,” you began. “When they were at their height of popularity, oil portraits taken from live, sitting subjects were a symbol of wealth and power. First of all, the nobility had time to sit around and do nothing for that long. Subjects were usually arrayed in their finest clothes and jewelry, surrounded by prized possessions, laid against lush backgrounds— usually their own land, which is still a marker of wealth even now. Maybe the Emperor wanted to evoke the old associations that come with the medium.” 

Thrawn was watching you close again as he considered your words. “That is fair. It is the history of the human species, here on its native soil as well. But, these portraits might not have the same effect on someone from another part of the galaxy with little or no knowledge of the history of the wealthier planets, such as myself for example. If that were the sole basis upon which the medium was chosen, I think they might prove less distinguished than they are. So perhaps that is not the only reason?”

Now you were thinning the wine red color, ready to blend it in with the burnt sienna. Of course, your intimacy with the subject meant that this counter-argument wasn’t upsetting. It just meant that you were now going to have to bring your personal relationship with the medium in. You wondered if this man, who was so famously logical and intellectual, would buy into that. The possibility that he might not understand _that_ part of art, the crucial alchemy that was in the eyes and heart of both artist and beholder, almost made you sad to consider. Your eyes resumed glancing between him and the board, marking places of shadow in the afternoon light.

“I also think that the oils are especially evocative,” you said. “The range of values in them, and the nearness they can have to reality with their shading and pigment, create a very arresting image.” A dab here, a dab there. Your paint was already proving your point, you thought as you melted the wine red into the sienna that was already there. “The darkness of old paintings may have been due to the limited nature of artificial lighting in that era, compared to what we have now, but it creates mystery and richness. Which can render anything more compelling, from the erotic to the foreboding. I think people respond to that with or without knowing the history. And I think the Emperor saw that, too.” 

“Indeed,” Thrawn murmured. You felt your guts shrink a little; was that a good ‘indeed’ or a bad ‘indeed’? And Maker, he was still watching you. This was going to be a long portrait. 

For a while, the Admiral at last fell silent. Sometimes you caught him glancing around the studio again, much to your chagrin, and sometimes he was looking at you. He watched your arms move, watched you flick the brush over the wood or dab it into the turpentine or swirl it around on your slab of a palette. His attentiveness was almost embarrassing; he seemed genuinely to enjoy seeing an artist at work, and you were unused to such shameless observation. So you focused on your work, and decided to avoid his eyes until you had to paint them.

By the time you’d started in on the purple layer, though, an errant glance at the chrono on the wall caused your heart to leap up into your throat.

“Maker! It’s past 0300!” you said, nearly jumping off of your chair. 

“Is it?” Thrawn turned to eye the chrono. “I wonder where Commander Vanto is, then? He was meant to contact me when our time was up.” 

“I’m sorry, sir, I should’ve been paying better attention—”

“You were paying attention to what was most important for you to be paying attention to. My schedule is my own responsibility to keep,” he said, dismissing your concern with all the easy confidence of his reputation and his rank. He tapped his comm badge. “Vanto, come in.”

You stood stark still, flustered by his acceptance and his authority, waiting right along with Thrawn to hear a response. But there was only silence, and a wrinkle appeared in his forehead. The most obvious emotion he’d shown the entire session. 

“Commander Vanto, this is Thrawn.” This time he sounded a little steely, and some of the gentle coo he usually spoke with fell away. You’d been right, there was a lower voice lurking beneath it; edged with frustration or concern or both, it hinted at something a little less pristine beneath his immaculate exterior. Which was both somewhat reassuring, making him seem more human-like, and ever so slightly frightening.

“Grand Admiral, I apologize,” came another voice, much more human and just barely colored with the agrarian accent of Wild Space, over the commlink at last. “This is Vanto. I’m on the way to the Arts District now.” 

“I hope we are not late for anything important, Commander.” But the edge was gone from Thrawn’s voice now. In fact, he almost sounded casual.

“No sir, I ended up meeting with the senator properly instead of just scheduling for later. She was free, so I thought I’d better take the opportunity,” Vanto replied. 

“Excellent. You may ring when you arrive, and I’ll come down to meet you.”

“Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes, sir.” 

He clicked the commlink off again, and turned back to look at you with the same inscrutable expression. “It seems all is well. Perhaps this is to your own advantage, seeing as you were afforded some extra thirty minutes to work.”

“Um, yes,” you replied, putting the palette down on your seat and slipping your brush into the turp. The two of you started towards the foyer. “I’m glad there wasn’t a problem, sir.” 

“I am sorry, by the way, if I cannot keep all of our weekly appointments,” Thrawn said. “I will endeavor, of course, but if I cannot, I’ll do my best to forewarn you. Duty does keep me from Coruscant at length, sometimes.” 

“That’s alright, sir, I know it’s part of the job. Most clients don’t even cancel ahead, so that’s very generous of you.” You were totally sincere at that moment; a high-ranking officer actually letting you know that they were too embroiled in a military engagement to come to their next sitting was quite literally unprecedented in your ten years of working for the Empire. The rumors had all said that Thrawn was not like the other men of his station, but the ways in which that was turning out to be true were not the ways you’d expected at all. 

“It is the least I can do to honor the time and skill you have committed to your work. Thank you, Laureate. This afternoon has been most edifying.” 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his faint little suggestion of a smile was back. The smile that broke over your face in response was hardly beaming, but in his presence it felt like you were naked and on display to show any emotion at all. Yet, there it was.

“I’m very happy to hear that, sir.”

At that moment, the chime from the entry level rang. Thrawn glanced over at the little screen by the door, and a young man with slightly unkempt brown hair and a gray uniform was waiting at the entrance below. “I suppose I’ll see you next week, Grand Admiral,” you said, still not sure if you should shake his hand, or something. 

“Until then,” he replied, and he offered you a gentle little dip of a bow, one arm folded across his torso. Then he turned, and the exit slid open to admit him back into the hallway towards the lift.

You realized that you felt much better than you’d expected to by the end of this session; in fact, you felt better than you’d ever felt at the end of a sitting, even the ones that had gone well. It was still a little disorienting, to paint someone of such distinct reputation and find out that he not only studied art, but asked _you_ about it. For the first time since you’d been employed by the Empire, you thought you might actually enjoy this job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what can i say? i love Thrawn, i'm an artist, and this is my first reader-insert. so here goes nothing >:)


	2. color composition

The week following your initial portrait session with Thrawn, you were much more timely. Not timely enough to give the studio a deep clean, or anything. There was a still life of fabric that was draped over the anatomical human skeleton in one slightly darker corner of the studio, anyway, a reference you’d created for a personal piece that you still needed. But, the newsprint was tidied, and the floor swept (mostly) clean of graphite dust. Unfinished pieces were relegated to the flat files or leaned against the wall. Your easel was propped up in the same spot as last time, and this time you’d placed Thrawn’s chair beforehand as well. The brushes were clean, the turpentine was fresh, and your palette was ready and waiting. 

You were looking rather more spiffy, too. For whatever reason, as you’d been in your flat below the studio the night before trying to go to sleep, you’d begun to feel fretful about your presentation. Just because the Grand Admiral wasn’t commenting on your unkempt appearance didn’t mean he wasn’t noticing it. You’d learned that the hard way from former clients.

Part of you still thought it was a stupid thing to worry about. The other part wanted to present your best in front of such a highly esteemed, if somewhat controversial, officer. You held him in somewhat higher esteem personally now, too, since he’d revealed his interest in the arts during the last session. 

In an effort to appease your nerves, you’d chosen cleaner and slightly more formal clothes. There might not have been a single item in your wardrobe that wasn’t bearing at least one tiny splatter of paint— such was the sacrifice of a working artist whose creative frenzies sometimes denied you the forethought to change before you started slinging paint— but at least you’d be presentable. Nevermind that it irritated you to paint in anything but shabby button-downs when you had a chance to think about it. That was less important. 

“Laureate, Grand Admiral Thrawn has arrived for his session,” said the droid from the desk downstairs over the tinny comm. More composed this time, though perhaps not less nervous, you pressed the button.

“Lovely, C4-10, please send him upstairs,” you replied. 

“The Grand Admiral is on his way.”

It felt like a minor eternity between that moment and the one where the door to the foyer finally opened. When it did, in stepped Thrawn, looking exactly as he had the last time in a pressed white Grand Admiral’s uniform and neatly slicked back hair. The same opaque gaze landed on you, and the same thrill of anxiety danced in your gut. The last time you'd seen him had felt almost like a dream, and you wondered if this time he might seem more real when you were done.

“Good afternoon, Grand Admiral,” you said, pleased that your voice was more steady than you’d expected. 

“The same to you, Laureate,” he replied in that soft voice. Swallowing, you turned your body towards the entrance to the studio. 

“Shall we?” He graced you with a little nod, and walked behind you into the airy, open space. You heard his footsteps behind you stall for just a moment, and you knew he was examining the studio again. _Is he gonna do that every kriffing time?_ At this rate, your embarrassment alone would have you cleaning more often than working between his sessions. 

But then he resumed following you to the easel, and you took up your palette and brush after squeezing a little more purple paint out. He took his seat, almost precisely the same posture as the first time. The glow of the high sunlight and its efflux from the walls bathed him so perfectly that you could almost see the final version of the portrait in your head, like a distant beacon calling your brush to the board.

“I hope you’ve had a good week, sir,” you said as you began to run the turp through the paint, thinning it out. Some little pleasantries were just polite, even for the subjects who’d been difficult. And you by no means wanted to be impolite to Thrawn.

“Yes, things have been going quite well since we last met, thank you for asking.” 

“That’s good to hear.”

“And yourself?” 

That was the part you weren’t prepared for. They never asked about _your_ week. What did these great people care for the flies upon the windows of the civilian world, even a brightly colored one? 

“Er, well, I suppose my week went well, too,” you murmured, glancing at a particular shadow on his face rather than meeting his gaze. You dabbed paint on the board, aligning it with what you saw. 

“You suppose?” He seemed curious despite almost no change at all having come over his face. Maybe one eyebrow was raised a single muscle-twitch.

“I hadn’t really thought about it, sir,” you said. “I’ve been working on personal projects this week, though, and I can’t complain about having the time to do that. So I think all in all it’s going well.”

“Ah, I see.” This drew his gaze over to the distant corner where the skeleton in its dramatic white drapes was nestled. “Is that perhaps a part of one of your projects?” 

Your face was instantly hot with bashfulness. The only thing less likely than a Navy officer asking you about your week was one asking you about your work. “Um, yes sir.”

“Are the bones and fabric themselves a part of the piece?”

“No, sir. They’re a reference for what I’m drawing.” 

“Very curious.” Now he was looking back at you, and you busied yourself dotting your paint in various shadowy areas of his face. “Is it to be another oil painting?”

“Actually, no. It’s a mixed medium piece, starting with graphite and probably layering on watercolor, maybe gouache, acrylic if I have to. There’s some color inkwork to be done as well, and I might have to refine it a little with colored wax pencil.” Why were you blabbing about this to the Grand Admiral, again?

“You do not have a planned sequence of the mediums?” he asked, and the eyebrow was officially lifted now. If he started making expressions, you weren’t sure if that would make these sessions better or worse.

“No, sir. I tend to go with my instincts on a mixed media piece.” 

“No oils?”

“They don’t play as well with the others,” you found yourself chuckling. “Oils are dramatic. They like to be center stage. Sometimes you can layer them over acrylic, but not the other way around, and the oil pencils do well with them if you keep them thin. But that’s about it.” 

“You speak of them as though they have a personality of their own,” he commented. There should have been derision in such a remark, but if there was, you couldn't hear it. Tragically, an artist was always waiting to be told what a frivolous waste of time their vocation was.

“To me, they do. The mediums speak in their own ways,” you said.

“That is rather in alignment with what you spoke of the last time I was here, about the oils having a certain drama and mystery unique to them.” 

Apparently, he’d bought into your position on that subject at least enough to remember it now. Which was more than you’d expected. “I do think that the attitude of the artist tends to permeate a piece as well, but the oils are special. I stand by what I said," you told him.

“Oh, and well you should. Having come upon the portrait gallery with no prior notion as to what I was seeing, I believe your observations to be quite accurate.” His voice was the same as ever, no particular pitch or sweetness to it. The almost mechanically smooth nature of his verbiage made you unsure what his purpose was in saying something like that.

“Thank you, sir. I think,” you murmured, gently blending the purple in with the wine color from before. 

“You think?” There was almost a _chuckle_ in his voice, that time. That, or you were already going mad and making up emotional inflections that weren’t there.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite make out if that was a compliment or not.”

“Apologies. I did mean it as one,” he said. “My position countering the efficacy of the oils as a historically significant medium was driven by the fact that I had no idea what their history on Coruscant was before I saw them. Yet, I found them quite compelling regardless. That is what I meant to convey.”

There was no denying the heat in your cheeks at that. It was rare that your clients complimented you directly, unless you’d managed to render a version of them that appealed to their more egocentric nature. 

“Then thank you very much, Grand Admiral. It’s every artist’s greatest wish to hear that their work left an impression on someone.” You looked away, pulling a dark blue from its tube to blend with the purple. The transition away from the color of shadows and into the actual shade of his skin would have to be smooth, but not too perfect. The light caught him in such a way as to offer one or two more dramatic shadows, the rest rendering him much more gently. 

Even without looking, you could tell he was watching you again. Your heart was jumping around in your guts, shocked to hear something so generous. Then the paint was blended, and you had to look back at his cheek so you could map its elegant contours on the board. 

“Do you receive feedback on your work often?” Thrawn asked after a moment. _Did I sign up to paint a portrait or for an interview?_ The sassy thought was just a cover for how wildly unnerving it was to have someone with that many nodes on their rank badge give half a cold bantha shit about you, of course. This question did feel just a hair more personal than the others, though.

“Er, on the portraits, sometimes. From junior officers who find me at a bar after their first trip to the Palace, or something. Once in a great while I get to show personal work, and sometimes people who come to the opening will say something. I got a very kind holo from a local who wanted to buy a piece from me, once. He didn’t realize that everything I make is technically property of the Empire,” you explained. 

“Even your personal work?” 

“Yes, so if I sell a piece, the Empire takes a cut. Which is fine,” you added hastily, “but it’s a lot of paperwork, and they take the payment out immediately.” 

“And the buyer declined?” 

“Yes, sir.” It was extremely possible that your latent frustration with the caveats of your job was obvious on your face even as you tried to remain focused on creating rich shadows on the board of wroshyr wood. You knew, of course, that the buyer had simply not wanted to give the Empire his money— nor deal with the paperwork, probably. So you'd lost out on a pretty decent sum even with the Empire taking its cut. But there was nothing for it.

“Does this not protect you from possible scams or those whose credit is broken?” Thrawn had fallen back businesslike, apparently curious about your position now. 

“It does. But honestly, most art doesn’t go for much on the black market unless it's historical, and if someone faked me out I’d have the piece tagged for retrieval. The Empire does pay me, though, and gives me this space as long as I create what they ask me to. Which, so far, is oil portraits.” It was imperative that you throw that last bit on there, of course. Complaints not taken to Staff Resources were often frowned upon, if they became rumors or otherwise grew unruly and less than favorable. 

Being fair, it wasn’t a bad position. You got to make whatever you wanted between jobs, and did not go hungry. Yet, there were times when the confines of it chafed against your restlessness to try new mediums or travel or do much of anything outside the budget for whatever department it was that paid you. And some subjects were totally forbidden for you to explore publicly in your work. It was a compromise for being able to make art for a living, and you’d never assumed you'd be able to do that at all. 

“Do many other artists work for the Empire?” 

“Yes, quite a few. They design posters and promotionals and things. I’m the only painter, that I’m aware of.” 

“So they pay artists to create propaganda.” There was no edge in Thrawn’s voice when he said it; it was stated much like any other fact. You eyed him; perhaps he was unaware of the loaded nature of that term. The rumors held that he wasn’t very socially acclimated, in spite of his undeniable success as an Admiral. 

“Whatever they ask for,” you said, a tacit agreement at best. You’d put your foot in your mouth enough times to be good at this. 

“And in your spare time you prefer to draw fabric and bones?” 

“I draw anything that looks interesting, or images that come into my mind. I’m not often lucky enough to have a real subject in front of me unless I’m doing a portrait, but I had the articulated skeleton and the bolts of cloth, so I improvised. I’m sure you know what a still-life is.” Another tube of blue; the primary blocks of color were starting to get laid in, though their blending was hours and hours away from finished. 

“I do,” he replied. “I believe they’re considered a fundamental tool for training oneself in the craft of drawing or painting.”

“Only in school,” you chuckled. “There are plenty of artists out there that are self-taught, and some people just don’t find drawing fruit and fabric very interesting. I don’t either, usually, but the bones are something I enjoy. The body in general.” 

Thrawn’s posture shifted just slightly, and it was almost as though he was keeping his head facing you very purposefully so as not to alter the light too much. “So you likely took figure study classes at school, then.” 

“Oh yes, they’re pretty universal.” You realized you were smiling faintly. Figure drawing had always been relaxing and invigorating at the same time; something about the subtle hand trying to capture the shadow on a body just so. “I miss doing them, actually.” 

“Do they present a variety of subjects at school?” 

“Yes, as often as they can. Not enough aliens, though, I suppose because ancient Coruscanti art forms aren’t interesting to that many aliens. Apparently neither is getting paid to stand nude in front of a bunch of students.” Your grin was larger as your eyes darted from subject to object, from Chiss to painting. “The ones who did do it could be a little… showy, you could say. They seemed to enjoy the idea that we’d be shocked to see their 'unusual' anatomy. Really, I just found them interesting. But most of our subjects were human, or humanoid, anyway.” 

“The nude is certainly an icon in human artistic traditions,” he said, musing. “Though it appears to be quite distinct from the history of erotic art. The two are considered greatly divergent. Yet, in many public places the artistic nude is still not allowed to be shown freely. As I am not yet deeply familiar with human culture, I find that confusing.” 

You frowned. “Well, that’s just because some people can’t seem to tell the difference. But I don’t think that erotic art should be as censored as it is, either. I mean, certainly there’s a time and place for it. It seems more and more, though, like nobody knows that time or place. But erotica is beautiful, and what it reveals about our nature is meaningful. I hate to see that conversation, those experiences stifled for anyone who is interested in them.”

Thrawn’s look was almost amused, a faint lift in the muscles below one eye and in his cheek suggesting humor. As a portrait artist, you were pretty good at observing faces down to the last detail, and this time you were sure that his response wasn’t in your head. Mostly because it made no sense to you, and you started to worry very suddenly that you'd spoken out of turn.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh it’s quite alright, Laureate. I appreciate your point of view, though it seems to be a common one among artists in particular,” he said, cutting you off much as he had the last time with casual authority. “Human ones, at least. The Chiss think rather differently, but I shan’t bore you with the extensive compartmentalization of our artistic or erotic conventions.”

There was a thought, buried far down in your mind as you sat there getting paid to stare at this impossibly striking and confident man, that said that you might very much like to be bored by one of those Chiss conventions in particular. Another thought came on its heels: _Shut up, brain._

“Well, sir, I did study artistic and, by extension, erotic conventions from many other species,” you replied, cheeks warming again. “I doubt I’d be bored by that subject. Though, our conversation topics are up to you, of course.”

You wondered if that was bold or not. If you were coming across as unassuming as you were desperately trying to, probably not. 

“I’m much more interested in _your_ perspective on these subjects,” Thrawn said. For whatever reason, his words sent a shiver down your spine— but not necessarily an unpleasant one. Was your heartbeat elevated? More importantly, why did the Admiral have you so damn flustered in the first place?

“Why’s that?” you asked, trying to laugh. The sound was warbly, a little self-conscious.

“Because I don’t have the privilege of meeting many artists in my line of work. The military mindset is powerful in some ways, limited in others.”

“And what is the military mind’s take on those matters?” You were asking out of curiosity, of course. Not out of a sudden, inexplicable cheekiness you needed to immediately tamp down, or anything. His amused expression, if you could call it that, was back.

“My time with the Empire hasn’t afforded me many opportunities to consider art or eroticism, or whether the two are really that different, outside of purely strategic purposes. At the moment, I aim to simply gather more knowledge before I present an opinion,” he said. It was, in spite of his implication of enjoyment, a clinical reply that neither dampened your interest nor inflamed it. Pausing for a moment to consider the colors on the board and then the ones on your palette, you felt your audacious streak settle into a rock in your stomach. _Stop kriffing around._

“Well, I can say that I appreciate your interest, sir,” you said at last. 

“Why’s that?” Now he was throwing your own question back at you.

“Because I don’t have the privilege of meeting many Admirals who enjoy art, even in my line of work.” Two could play at the reflection game, you thought. “It’s nice, because our conversation has made me miss figure studies enough that I might do some, soon. When I can find a willing subject.” 

“I would be curious to see them,” he said, tone even more aloof. There was a growing knot of something that almost resembled shame in your throat. He seemed genuine enough about wanting to see the drawings, but the speed at which his interest in art at large had gone to your head made you feel a little foolish. Art was his interest, not you, and really that's exactly how it should've been. 

Luckily, before you had to figure out how to reply, there was a quiet beep from Thrawn’s wrist commlink. 

“Ah, it's time, then.” He tapped the device, then slid with controlled movements off the stool. The grace with which he moved made you wonder how strong he was under his uniform, but that thought was banished along with all the other ones. Setting aside your brush and palette, you fell in beside Thrawn to walk him to the exit. 

“Thank you for your time today, sir,” you said, the picture of reserved professionalism. No more of this internal spinning like a top around him, you told yourself. His handsome and amazingly enigmatic face did not need to cause such dramatic emotional flux. It merely needed to be rendered.

“Thank you, Laureate.” He turned briefly toward you before he crossed the foyer to the exit. “I meant to ask. Why are you dressed so much more formally, today?”

You froze, caught off-guard by the question that seemed to come out of nowhere. “Um, well… I just, I thought I should be more properly dressed to receive a Grand Admiral than I was at our first session.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Thrawn said in that confident tone that he had. “I do not require such ceremony.”

You weren’t sure if he’d picked up on your shifting mood, or if you’d seemed stiff while you were working that day. Either was extremely plausible, and frankly you were already over the stuffy fabric of your clothes. Somewhere in your hindbrain, you'd spent the entire session wanting to throw on a paint-covered shirt and roll around on the studio floor in defiance. 

“I suppose I was less comfortable today, yeah,” you murmured, glancing away from him. 

“I enjoy observing you, and this studio is your space. Feel free to work in whatever manner of dress is most comfortable for the task, Laureate.” The ghost-smile was back, and you were a little stunned. He’d shifted from his own generalized interest back to paying attention to _you,_ and it was not helping the mess your emotional responses to him had become in an impressively short period of time.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind,” was all you managed, the words emerging from a little smile that was half flattered and half petrified.

“Until next time, then.” That half a bow, and then the sliding doors were closing behind him once more. You took in a huge, slow breath, quietly trying to settle your fluttering nervous system. 

“Maker alive, I’m stupid,” you groaned to the empty room at length. “ _Stupid._ From now on I’m taking everything he says at face value. Everything!” 

Even as you marched back into the disarray of the studio as though to command your thoughts to follow orders, you knew it wouldn't be that easy. But the decision was made: no crushing on Grand Admiral Thrawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet y'all didn't expect in-depth discussion didja *eyes emoji*.... just kidding this is Thrawn we're talking about here of course you expected it <3
> 
> thanks for the comments and kudos y'all!


	3. underpainting

By the third session of the Chiss Admiral’s portrait, you’d come to a middle ground between being wildly underprepared and absurdly over-prepared. Taking his comments about your clothing to heart, you’d retreated gratefully back into your preferred painting duds (including the lack of shoes). But the materials were ready, this time, and the studio was… well, it wasn’t as bad at the first session, at least. Half a dozen studies of the skeleton and fabric were taped haphazardly to the wall near it, but there was no better place to put them anyway so you’d left them there. At least they weren't on the floor. 

The chime came, and your heart was more calm than you’d anticipated. Then came the wait for him to take the lift, and then the foyer doors slid open.

“Greetings, Laureate,” Thrawn said coolly as he entered. 

“Grand Admiral.” You nodded, and immediately worried that your greeting was too curt. _Off to a great start with not freaking out about him, there, chief._ So you put a small smile on your face and turned to offer him the passage into the studio, which he took. You fell in beside him on the way to the easel, hoping that your brief salutations portended to a quiet session. 

You were wrong.

“I paid a visit to the portrait gallery at the Imperial Palace yesterday,” Thrawn said before you’d even made it halfway to the easel. Your guts tensed.

“Oh really?” 

“Yes, I wanted to refresh my memory of your works there.” He seemed absolutely as he always did, full of impassive interest. “It provoked rather more questions about your process than I expected. I wondered if I might ask you about them today while you work, if it’s not too distracting.” 

Since when was one of your clients asking your _permission_ to speak to you while you worked? You blinked. 

“Um, yes, that’s fine, sir. I mean, you can technically ask anything you want, at any time you want,” you replied.

“I would not want you to feel interrupted. I apologise for failing to consider this during our last two sessions. I hope my prying didn’t impede your progress in any way. ”

“No, sir, not at all.” _Even being ridiculously flustered didn’t impede my progress,_ you thought ruefully. 

“Good.” He sat on the stool, and you watched him move. He certainly _was_ strong, and that strength gave him a physical poise every other officer you’d ever painted lacked. A poise you were trying to bring even into the muscles of his face, with every stroke of your brush. As you settled in with your materials and began visually aligning your subject with his portrait, you chewed your bottom lip absently. Everything was blobs of color, light and shadow. But soon the edges would be coaxed together, melting into each other, pulling form from chaos. Today’s light was a little more subdued than the previous two sessions had been, with a few high white clouds drifting between the vaulted windows and the sun.

“Is everything alright?” Thrawn asked, pulling you from your thoughts.

“What? Yes, everything’s fine, sir,” you said. 

“It seemed you were considering rather longer than usual.” 

“Oh, that’s just me making sure that what I’ve got here is what I want.” You waved your hand in front of the board. “It helps to step away from the work, and return to it later to evaluate more clearly.”

“I see.” He was watchful, maybe even more so than before, you weren’t sure. Maybe you were just increasing in hypervigilance every time he came to sit, and by the end of the portrait you’d be able to notice the whole damn galaxy at once. It certainly didn't seem implausible, at this rate. But the painting had your attention today as well, now that it was starting to become fully mapped and soon new layers would develop.

“I may need a little green for this, but I think I’ll table that for now,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. The brush was in your hand, and you were tugging a brighter blue onto the high places of his forehead, cheekbones, nose, chin. Or, where they would be, once you got past the early stages. 

“So, when I went to view the other portraits, a question occurred to me.” 

He seemed to be inviting your engagement in a more subtle way than he had thus far. Then, you realized that your mind had fully bypassed the fact that he’d gone to the gallery in favor of not mildly panicking. Now, you steeled yourself against whatever was to come, with a reminder to yourself that this was _purely professional interest._ You raised an eyebrow.

“About what?”

“Grand Moff Tarkin was your first subject, was he not?” Thrawn asked. 

“He was,” you replied, nodding briefly. The memories of that daunting man and the even more daunting task of rendering his portrait still moved through you uncomfortably, even after all the years. “That was the piece I was commissioned to determine whether or not I would be chosen for this job."

“I see. All of the portraits there had character, of course, but I believe Tarkin’s was strongest. It caused me to think about your statement that the perspective of the artist affects the painting itself.”

You swallowed, your nerves suddenly veering away from being flustered and into being just a little fearful. There was no way of knowing how close this man was with the Grand Moff, or what his purpose was in this line of questioning. His pause was brief, inviting you to comment, but you were suddenly busied very closely with one particular part of the painting you were working on.

“I wondered what was going through your mind when you were working on that portrait,” Thrawn said when you didn’t offer. _Kriff._

“Um, well, I was very stressed about him liking it. Because if he did, then I had a job,” you replied, skirting away from the meat of the subject.

“Clearly you succeeded. Did he say why?” 

“No. He just said that I had the job. If you’ve met him even once, you won’t find that very surprising, though.”

“He is quite concise, true.” There was that maybe-chuckle in his voice again. Your heart was starting to beat in your ears faintly, hoping this was enough information for the discerning Grand Admiral and knowing full well that it wasn’t. He was keener than that. “What do you believe made him pleased with it?” 

“I, um. Well, I tried to make him look… authoritative. Which, to be honest, wasn’t that hard, and I knew that if I tried too hard he would be able to tell,” you said. “So, I guess I painted him like someone who held the balance of the rest of my life in his hands. Because in a way he did.”

Thrawn was motionless, gaze boring a hole in you as you decided to map out the high collar of his uniform instead of look back at his face. “Were you frightened of him?” 

The coolness of the question, the same coolness with which he’d uttered the word _propaganda_ during his last session as though its emotional impact was null, should have made it worse. By all means, such a sentence should have been frightening in its own right, showing him to be casually detached not only from your success but from your fear, too. Every instinct you’d developed working under the Emperor’s omnipresent sway taught you that here, there were dragons. 

But it didn’t frighten you. Not coming from the Chiss. Despite the lack of sweetness in his tone, the curiosity was there in such a way that, even though it lacked emotional emphasis, felt artless. You looked back at him, met his strange red eyes ever so briefly. 

“Yes,” you replied. “But I mean, almost everyone seems to be.”

“You did not paint him as though you were afraid.” Thrawn held his gaze on you as he spoke, even as you glanced at his chin and then returned to your board. “It was more... _complex_ than a frightened artist speaking through the image.”

This surprised you, but for the first time since you’d begun the portrait your response wasn’t to tense up. Instead, you softened, though maybe you were also swaying almost imperceptibly back away from him in your chair. He’d taken the time to analyze the piece’s emotions, and stumbled on something that had been so instinctive to you that you’d only come to realize it midway through the process of painting it. Something about that was equal parts touching and bizarre. 

“Tarkin didn’t want a portrait that would make him seem like he’d frightened the artist,” you said, glancing back at Thrawn, avoiding his eyes again. “He wanted a portrait that would make him seem capable of frightening anyone. That conveyed not just his status, but his ruthless commitment to it. Not that he asked for that, or anything. I just… could tell, I guess. Plus, he was a great sitter, almost as still as you.” 

There was a glimmer in Thrawn’s eye when you looked back at him for your next flick of the brush, maybe. Or maybe the cloud that was passing over the sun had a break in it, a flicker of brightness that caught in the red glow. You weren’t sure. 

“It speaks to your skill that you may draw out of a person what they want most in their own portrait,” he said at last. “The interplay between artist and subject becomes so clear as to allow the viewers to step into the exchange themselves. Though, I infer that not every subject in the gallery wanted something that particular.”

Your face was hot again, eyes back on your painting as you laid in a few broad strokes. “Thank you, sir. No, not all of them were concerned with what I painted as long as it looked like them and looked, er, professional I guess. Admiral Yularen, for example, he was pretty laid back about the whole thing. Didn’t sit still very well, though,” you added with a little grin, remembering the elderly mustachioed man fidgeting on his chair in the same studio you were in now. 

“It does not surprise me that Yularen was an easygoing subject,” Thrawn said. “His portrait seemed… preoccupied. As though he were always thinking about something else, but keenly rather than idly.”

“He was usually thinking about his work, I think. Not everyone is, but he was. I did find that admirable, in a way, so I brought that into the piece I’m sure.”

“Yes, it’s respectful. He is quite capable, but I’ve always found him rather more open than Grand Moff Tarkin. They approach their jobs very differently. I was impressed at how clearly that came through the images.”

If he kept complimenting your work at this rate, all hope of avoiding an egregious and almost certainly unrequited crush on Grand Admiral Thrawn was lost. There was no way to clamp down over your smile, though, because _Maker_ was it not the way to any artist’s heart to see into the depths of their work? And to appreciate it? 

Nevermind that this man was famous, as you’d now heard more about, for doing just that as part and parcel of his military strategy. Nevermind that his intelligence and ability to connect seemingly unrelated things through the dense matrix of reality just by paying attention was what he was famous for. If anything, that fact made him wildly more attractive, and made your predicament that much more hopeless. _Kriff,_ you thought. _Just space me right now. This is going to be the longest portrait of my life._

“You’re, ah, you’re very kind, sir,” you stammered, looking down at the way your paint-stained fingers curled through the grip on your palette. “I— you don’t have to—”

“I’m simply relating the truth, Laureate. I am not practiced at flattery, I’m told.” He seemed almost to be taking a light jab at himself, but without any debasement. As though the jab spoke more about those who said so than it did about him. But his tone remained cool, his look unreadable. 

“Well, I can only hope you’re pleased with whatever’s here on this board when I’m finished, then, sir.” 

“Indeed.” This time, the word seemed curious rather than painfully deadpan, at least. You switched out your brush for a smaller one with a finer tip, beginning to lay in the first hard edges. Gratitude for the impending detail work flooded you; maybe it would help you settle down. Shame still crept at the edge of your feelings, waiting to tell you what a fool you were, but at that moment you were allowing yourself the luxury of basking in the compliment, at least. That was _nice,_ dammit. You could appreciate the niceness. 

The two of you fell silent as you started to bring in lines of some of the shadow colors you’d chosen, starting back with the burnt sienna. The paint was thicker this time, less cut with turpentine, as each layer would become as you built up the image. You found yourself looking intently at Thrawn’s face in minute portions, tweaking little things about its shape as you went. It was the same process you always used, but this time you wanted with your whole heart for it to be perfect. To think that impressing Tarkin had felt impossible. 

But despite the pressure, which you were decidedly putting on yourself this time, your focus always settled while you were working. The rest of the galaxy disappeared, leaving only you and your paint and the most impressive man you’d ever met, staring at each other. With the board between you, that was much less mortifying than it would have been otherwise. 

When his alarm chirped, it happened to be just as you were getting frustrated with an area that you’d been struggling with a little. So it was a relief, in a way, even though you’d gotten so comfortable working that you’d almost been able to forget the sensation of his eyes as they flitted between watching you closely and glancing around the studio. That was a habit you’d have to accept one way or another, apparently. Slipping your brush into the tin of turp, you sighed. 

“It’s that time,” you said, rising from your chair. 

“Yes, it would seem so.” Thrawn was already on his feet, silencing the beeping on his commlink. “Allow me just a moment, please.” 

“Of course.” You nodded, and he pressed another button on the comm as he began to turn and take slow steps towards the foyer. You followed him on your bare feet. 

“Commander Vanto, are you receiving?” 

A split second of static, and then the voice from his first session spoke. “Yes sir, Admiral. The speeder just parked, in fact.”

“Excellent. I shall be down in just a moment.”

“Acknowledged, sir.” 

He lowered his wrist and stopped just before the exit. “It has been a very pleasant session, Laureate. Thank you for humoring my curiosities about your work.”

“They’re very welcome, Admiral. It’s very rare someone takes an interest, so thank you,” you managed to reply through the burning of your cheeks. 

“I shall look forward to next week, then,” he said, and there was an actual, honest-to-Maker smile on his face. A small one, of course, but not simply a vague impression on his cheek this time. You returned it.

“So will I.” 

He gave his half-bow, and then was gone. You stood there, feeling almost weightless as you stared at the place where he’d just been standing with that smile stuck to your face. He was _looking forward_ to next week. He’d gone to the kriffing portrait gallery just to look at your other work and come back with questions. He wanted to understand the emotional process of the paintings, rather than just observe that they looked nice. He was genuinely _impressed_ with your work!

“Nope,” you murmured to yourself, feeling your heart come drifting down from on high. If the sudden sexual tension from last time while discussing erotic art had been bad, getting your big stupid heart caught up in it was _so_ much worse. Just because he seemed like a man who wouldn’t give such careful thought and interest to someone he didn’t admire didn’t mean anything about your personal connection. He was allowed to admire you for the thing the Empire literally paid, fed, and housed you to do. That was the whole point, the reason you had your job. It was the thing you were good at. If he’d asked you about military strategy, he wouldn’t be half so impressed. Hell, you couldn’t even keep a straight face playing sabaac. There were many skills outside your purview, you reminded yourself. 

Stalking back into the studio, you stood in front of the in-progress portrait for a moment. The shapes you needed were there, the suggestion of atmosphere beyond it bleeding into the fine texture of the wroshyr wood. The lines you’d started to cut were a ghost of Thrawn’s face, but they laid just so on the board. Other than the patch you’d been worrying at the end of the session, which you still felt needed a little attention, it was already exactly the proportions you wanted, already leaning towards the face of a commanding, elegant, and frighteningly smart man. 

You sighed. _This has to be a perfect portrait,_ you told yourself. Everything you admired about him would go into it, because that was what you needed to make it just right. The ideal outlet for the emotional responses his dispassionate inquiries seemed to inflame for you, just the same as Tarkin’s portrait had become the vessel for your equal parts fear and respect towards him. What _Thrawn_ wanted to see, you still didn’t know. But your dedication to your craft would be your comfort, just like it always was. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you looked up at the empty stool across from you. 

“I’ll get it right,” you muttered, picking up the dirty brushes and carrying them and the turpentine over to the sink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor artist just spinning their wheels about this blueberry lol. but i mean... he DID go look at the portraits again...


	4. value study

When the Grand Admiral was coming up on fifteen minutes late for his fourth session, you sat perched on his stool, banging your foot against one of its legs. This disjointed staccato of your nerves was brought on by a powerful maelstrom of frustration, worry, anxiety, and something that resembled genuine hurt. The last had you scolding yourself, repeating how Thrawn was a busy man and that sometimes his job was not just demanding, but wildly unpredictable. Rumors abounded of rebel activity in the far reaches of the Empire. There was no way to know exactly how true they all were, but reports of violence were frequent. And that was what the military dealt with quite fundamentally, of course. 

Still, you sat with your foot dancing while the rest of your body was stiff with concern. Was he going to no-show on you like all the others? Was that because he was at horrible risk of bodily harm or getting sucked into the vacuum of space? Was it just Coruscant traffic? Was it because in the end he gave less of a shit than you wanted him to? 

Maybe it was better he missed that day anyway, you thought. Outside, rain was thrumming down relentlessly on the massive studio windows. The light was utterly different, though not necessarily awful. It could make consistency in the progress of the painting difficult, though, and you might find yourself having to go back and edit whatever was laid down when the light wasn’t what you wanted. Oils were merciful at least, when it came to adjusting, because they took so long to dry. But it still complicated things. Habitually you sought to avoid prolonging the time spent on the portrait; it didn’t matter regarding your pay, but it did matter regarding your sanity when it came to certain clients. Based on your emotional response to a late-or-absent-without-notice Thrawn, half of you wanted to stretch the damn thing out as long as possible while the other half wanted to preserve your nervous system and wrap it up at lightspeed.

Just as you were considering leaving a message with C4-10 at the entrance desk and going downstairs to pout in your flat, the comm on the wall panel buzzed.

“Laureate, the Grand Admiral is here for your session.”

You’d never covered the distance between the wall of windows and the entrance to the foyer where the comm was that quickly. “Thank you, C4, he can come up now.” 

“He is on his way.” 

You could feel your heart in your kriffing  _ cheeks, _ walking into the foyer. It was part elation and part shame at how poorly you’d handled this objectively innocuous situation, of course, but you took some deep breaths in an attempt to disperse your blood back into other parts of your body where it wouldn’t be so embarrassing. Clutching your hands together, you stared at the door awaiting your subject. 

Your eyes grew wide when it slid open at last. Thrawn stepped into the room leaving a trail of little shoe-shaped puddles behind him, droplets of rain falling onto the floor all around. He was absolutely soaked, his white uniform rendered slightly translucent especially around the shoulders. His hair was beginning to escape its neat slick, long damp strands of it hanging in front of his face. A blue hand reached up to wipe water off his cheek and chin as he came to a halt halfway between you and the door.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I chose the wrong day to walk here from the Senate District, it would seem.”

“Oh, goodness!” you found yourself exclaiming. “Here, let me get you a towel!” Turning back into the studio, you rushed to the shelf where you kept all your old towels and rags, rifling through them for one that wasn’t full of holes. Pulling two out, just in case, you scampered back into the foyer. 

Of course, when you looked back at Thrawn, your breath caught in your throat. He’d removed his jacket, holding it in front of him by a fold in the collar for just a moment before laying it down gently on the loveseat that gave your barren little waiting room a pale semblance of welcome. Under it, he was wearing a simple white undershirt that was also completely soaked with rain— and fit him  _ incredibly, _ straining against the well-developed muscles of his shoulders and chest before it tucked dutifully into his white trousers. Beneath it the blue skin of his face and arms— kriff, his  _ arms— _ showed through the thinner fabric where it was plastered to his form. 

All the blood you’d banished from your face earlier came rushing back, and then some. The strength you’d noticed in his movements was abundantly clear, now. Everything about the way he looked at that moment made you want to melt into the floor. 

But then he looked back at you, and you snapped back into the moment. Gripping one of the towels, you held it out towards him.

“Thank you, Laureate, that’s most helpful,” he said, and his voice seemed almost airy in contrast with the way your guts were coiling inside you, despite being almost exactly its usual tone. He wiped off his face, and ran the towel over his hair enough to muss it, which was absolutely even more attractive. When he began running the towel over his arms and shoulders, you swallowed hard and prayed to whatever greater powers there were in the universe— gods, the Force, whatever— that it wasn’t painfully obvious how seriously flustered you were at that moment. Trying to gather your thoughts and push valiantly past the unexpected display of his immaculate form, you held the other towel close.

“Do you need another?” you asked as he wiped the back of his neck. 

“Actually, do you happen to have a refresher?”

“Oh! Yes, it’s just around here.” You beckoned him to follow you as you reentered the studio, turning down the wall that faced the windows to a little door that was painted white so as to not disrupt the wall’s reflective qualities. Opening it, you turned back to Thrawn and held in a gasp at the way that the gentle, rainy daylight fell on his body. Like you hadn’t just seen him in the comparatively sterile light of the foyer’s ceiling bulbs. You handed him the other towel, wondering how big your eyes looked.

“Perfect, thank you. I’ll just be a moment,” he said, slipping into the tiny room. You went over to the towel shelf again to pull one more, just in case, and when you turned back to the ‘fresher you froze. 

Thrawn hadn’t quite shut the door. Apparently, he’d also pulled off his shirt and draped it over the sink, and was now toweling his torso off quickly. There was a respectable gap between the frame and the door itself, and within it you caught the curves of his back as he moved. In front of him above the sink was a little mirror, and you could just barely see his  _ absurdly  _ beautiful chest.

For a moment, you actually had to close your eyes.  _ Whoever answered that prayer, you’re the worst! This is the opposite of helpful! _

When you opened them again, he was wringing out the shirt over the bowl of the sink with an iron grip. Unfurling it, he then tugged it back on, and picked up the towel again to resume drying his hair as much as he could. He was still doing so when the door swung open properly and he stepped out, casting around the studio until his eyes fell on you. 

Heart belligerent in your chest, you held the third towel towards him, utterly mute. He held up a hand in gentle dismissal, one of his shadow-smiles coming over his face. 

“That’s alright. You’ve been most gracious,” he said. 

“What about your jacket?” you managed to say, impressed at the relative calm of your voice. “I’m sure I have a hanger it could dry on—”

“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll have to wear it again when I depart, after all.”

“The rain might stop,” you offered.

The actual smile appeared. “Maybe if it does I’ll just get a little more sun on my return walk.” 

“Well, okay. When you put it that way,” you said, almost smiling yourself even as your face muscles clamped desperately down on any emotion that veered too close to the surface. 

“I apologize for cutting terribly into our time, this session,” he said, stepping over towards the easel. “And that I do not quite look as presentable as I should.” 

“It’s alright, really,” you assured him, fiddling with the towel that was still in your hands as you trailed him. “I can still work on some of your features even with the change in lighting. And you did walk all the way here, after all. How far is it to the Senate District?” 

“Some sixteen kilometers or so.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “That far? Maker, and you plan to walk back?” 

“I find it rather invigorating,” he said as he perched on the stool once again. You had almost acclimated, superficially at least, to the fact that he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore. Almost. 

“I suppose it was still sunny when you started this morning,” you murmured to yourself, taking up your place behind the easel. Thrawn was pushing his hair back away from his face in a valiant attempt to make sure he wasn’t utterly unrecognizable for your work. Your eyes lingered on the ripples of his muscles as he moved, and then you looked right back down at your palette. Prayers and silent, internal complaints had done you no good thus far, so you abandoned them in favor of steady breathing. The chrono on the wall read 0100, only half an hour from the usual start time. 

“Yes, well. It was much too late once the rain began to turn back.” 

“My insistence that you could get a cab would fall on deaf ears, wouldn’t it?” you asked, trying not to grin too much as you squeezed some fresh blue paint onto the palette. You hadn’t expected this particular brand of obstinacy from this man, but of course, any expectations you had were mostly out of the window by now.

“Perhaps,” he said, taking up the posture he always did while on the stool. “Perhaps not.”

Well, that response was about what you  _ could  _ expect, actually. But he still seemed somewhat bemused, so you took it as a sign not to panic and started in on your painting for the day. You’d moved the little portrait station you’d created closer to the transparisteel of the windows, trying to get more light on the subject despite the muted sun. It wasn’t the same, of course, but there was a subtlety to the shadows and the rich blue hue of his skin in this new scenario that quickly absorbed your attention. After a little while, you stopped to go and pluck two other blues and a deep teal from the peg board.  _ Yes, _ you thought,  _ these colors are perfect! _ Even in the renewed sunlight that was sure to come in subsequent sessions, you knew the painting would look better now at least regarding color and values. Just slapping a blue on the board, or even two, would by no means do the Chiss’ skin tone justice. Now that you could see it in his neck and shoulders, too, you were captivated by the depth of it. 

He observed you as keenly as he ever did, the faint glow of his eyes a little more obvious in the duller light. But you were distracted by the careful alignment of your brush to his features, mapping shapes and even single strokes that would remind you where you wanted the color to shift ever so subtly as you continued to build the layers of paint. Every glance afforded you an opportunity to let your eyes travel over his body, too, which now that you were focusing enough on painting, wasn’t anything to complain about. It was just part of the process, to absorb the beauty that you saw, to notice everything and pour your attention back into the piece. An outlet, at last, for your awe and fascination. 

It took you a moment to realize that his comm was beeping. Reaching his wrist up, the first movement he’d made in an hour and a half, he silenced it. You pushed a final few strokes over the part of his face you were working on, glancing back at his cheekbone as you did, to try and round out the sense of completion you always sought before a session truly ended. Otherwise, the unsatisfying feeling of being interrupted always hung over you, even if you tried to finish a bit more once the client was gone. 

But the paint wasn’t quite behaving, and you frowned at it and plucked another, dry brush from your tin. Leaning close to the board, you very slowly pushed the paint out where you wanted it, ending it in a crisp line that you had to go over once or twice (with back-glances at said cheekbone, of course) to be happy with its shape. Then you leaned back, looked at your subject, then back at the piece. 

“Tolerable, for now,” you muttered, sure you’d have to layer over it again to get it just right. Then you realized that Thrawn was still sitting stark still, watching you. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I was just… I needed to finish that one bit.” 

Red eyes regarded you, unreadable and silent for a nanosecond long enough to make you fear you’d upset him somehow with your lack of speedy ending. But then, he spoke.

“As long as you’re feeling settled with what you’ve achieved. I hope it was not more trouble than necessary.” 

“Actually, I’m grateful for the change of light,” you said, eyes falling back on the painting. “I saw more colors in your skin tone today. I think they’ll improve things greatly if I can just get them where they belong. I’ve never painted skin like yours, so I’m just… trying to get it right.” Suddenly you were struck with sheepishness. Despite his consistent curiosity about your process, it felt strange and foolish to prattle on about it to a client when most did not find it at all interesting. Especially when you were  _ so  _ absorbed by him, that day.

“Have you never painted a Pantoran?” he asked. 

Your brow knit, confused. “Er, well, once. For a personal piece. Why?” 

“Oh, I just find that humans seem to be unable to tell Chiss and Pantorans apart.” There was that whisper of a smile again, and you blinked. 

Had the Grand Admiral just made a _ joke? _

“I…” You stifled a little huff of laughter. “Well, I guess that’s not so surprising. But your skin isn’t the same at all.”

“That’s rather what I thought,” he said, slowly sliding off the stool. “Heartening, to know that a human artist of such quality as yourself is capable of seeing the difference. I’m most curious as to how it will turn out.” 

Had the rain and the lack of jacket had some sort of effect on his brain? Were you delusional, thinking that Thrawn was, in his eternally unemotional voice, trying to make you laugh? Or was it not a joke at all, and your laughter was actually a mark against you, a blemish on your record of perfectly accommodating and (mostly) professional work thus far?

“I’ll do my best, sir,” you said, leaving your chair to escort him to the foyer as always. The realization dawned on you that it was the first time you’d called him  _ sir  _ for the entirety of the session. 

“I’m certain you will.” If the preceding sentences had been hard to interpret, this one was not. It was impassive, and he looked dead ahead as he walked. “I appreciate your accommodating my tardiness today, Laureate. I assure you, it will not become a regularity.” 

“Of course, Admiral. I’m sorry your walk was made less pleasant by the rain.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t troublesome. I’ve not experienced much rain consistently of late, spending as much time on the  _ Chimaera  _ as I do. It’s rather novel, for me.” He plucked his jacket, which was still damp in spots, up off the loveseat. “It seems to have stopped, regardless.” 

You hadn’t even noticed the change to quiet from the pitter-patter of precipitation. Thrawn folded his jacket over his arm, then turned back towards you. Nothing of the self-contained regality he always emanated left his figure, even without the jacket. No, his confidence was much deeper than rank, you realized. 

“Well, I hope you enjoy your walk back, either way,” you said, rubbing the wrist of your painting hand as you felt a faint and familiar twinge there. 

“Thank you, Laureate. Enjoy your evening, as well. I shall see you in a week.” 

“Until then, sir.” 

Always that little bow, before he turned to depart. You stood there, still stroking your wrist, not quite feeling the whiplash you normally did after sessions with Thrawn. Uncertainty still broiled within you, along with the ever conspicuous knowledge that nothing about this was personal. But somehow you were less bothered by it, today, though you couldn’t say why exactly. 

On an impulse you’d never had before, you walked through the exit and out into the hallway. The lift was to your left, but the entire wall of the building was transparisteel. And there, several stories below you on the elevated crosswalk that made its winding way all around Level 4980, was the figure of Thrawn moving out of the building and down on his merry way. He’d probably have to change levels six times, to get to the Senate District from here on foot. But apparently to him a multi-level maze was a brisk morning’s walk. He strode along purposefully, and the emerging sun caught his blue shoulders as he went. 

You stood, mesmerized, as the Grand Admiral got smaller and smaller, fading at last into an abrupt left turn along an intersecting crosswalk. Then he was gone, and you were left only with the swell in your chest. 

“I’m in so much trouble,” you muttered, turning to retreat back into your studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE your fav is *drenched* and *hot* is a favorite trope of mine ngl


	5. the ugly phase

Early in the morning of the day that was to be the fifth session of your painting with Thrawn, you were already sitting on the floor of the studio, pursing your lips at the pile of fabric studies that were spread out in front of you. Charcoal and graphite and few in oil pastel, and none of them were quite what you wanted. The composition wasn’t coming together like you’d hoped, and you felt like a hunter out stalking its prey without success. There was a literal sense of hunger about it, the need to find the image your mind was trying to conjure. So often they came to you with utter clarity, but these damn bones and fabric weren’t igniting any pivotal sparks of creation. Just study after study, like you’d regressed all the way back to your days at school. 

It was so frustrating that you’d woken up early to come and try to ponder it, before the real work of the day began. And  _ early  _ was not a word you were particularly fond of, much less a reality. But you couldn’t go back to sleep, so you’d found your way upstairs. 

What was getting in the way? Why couldn’t you find the thing you wanted? The feeling, the desire was there. But nothing seemed to be emergent, no visual metaphor forthcoming from whatever powers kept watch over inspiration.

Maybe the subject was wrong. Maybe bones and flowers could not speak the language of whatever wanted to be painted. Was there something else you needed, something you might have to go out and look for to help you seek out the elusive thing that wanted to be born of your hands, dusty with charcoal?

In the middle of your onslaught of thoughts, there was a chime at your wall comm panel that cut through them with its high pitched whine.

“Laureate, there is a transmission for you from Commander Vanto,” said C4-10’s monotone voice. Your frown deepened as you scrambled up from the floor to respond. You never brought your wrist comm to the studio, it was far too distracting. 

“Send it through,” you replied, crossing your arms after you let go of the button.  _ What the hell can this be about?  _

Sure enough, the young man with his mop of hair and commander’s insignia on his uniform appeared as a ghostly, blueish form from the holoprojector. 

“Artist Laureate, this is Commander Eli Vanto of the  _ Chimaera. _ I’m contacting you on behalf of Grand Admiral Thrawn,” he said, tone businesslike. 

“Hello, Commander,” you replied, shifting your weight onto one hip. Apparently the fact that you were peeved at the pile of studies on the floor was bleeding over its margins into your communications. “Is there an issue with the Admiral’s appointment today?” 

“He sends his humble regrets that he’ll have to miss today’s appointment, but wanted to ask if he could reschedule for the same time tomorrow.” 

You blinked. A reschedule was unheard of, but you weren’t bothered by it. In fact, it was exceedingly courteous for him to offer one at such a close date.

“Um, well, I don’t have my calendar on me at the moment, but usually I’m in the studio around that time of day. The light is always good. So I believe tomorrow should be just fine, sir,” you said. 

Vanto smiled a cursory, but not insincere smile. “Thank you, Laureate. We would have understood had it been too short notice, but we’re most grateful for your flexibility.” 

“It was no trouble this time around,” you assured him. “Please thank the Admiral for his thoughtfulness.” 

“I will. Be well,” he said, nodding deeply. 

“You also, Commander.” And with that mercifully pithy exchange, his image winked out. 

You were just a little bit bummed, to be honest. It wasn’t as though tomorrow was lightyears away, or anything, but you realized that your agitation with the fruitless venture of your latest personal piece being replaced with the much more welcome agitation of painting Thrawn was something you’d been looking forward to. As it was, now you’d likely spend the whole day in a state of latent irritation. You sighed, rubbing your forehead, and turned to walk back to the still life.

In the wayward drift of preoccupation, you found yourself standing in front of Thrawn’s portrait instead. Peering at it from a slightly greater distance than your chair usually was, you let your eyes unfocus to try and get a sense of the greater value scheme, of where his handsome cheekbone and jaw would emerge from under his discerning brow. There was no red on the board yet, no indication of where his eyes would go. You’d been avoiding them, waiting to place them until such a time as you could summon the courage to hold his gaze for any reasonable period. 

Even as you examined it, though, the real face it was based on swam into your mind’s eye. It felt vivid, yet murky. The image of it was not clear enough to paint by, but the impression it gave was crystalline with your captivation. Flashes of the supple blue flesh of his shoulders, his chest, the mountainous landscape of his back made their way through like a slideshow, furtive glimpses dangling just beyond your reach on the other end of a chasm you had no means to traverse. 

Maker, you’d been looking forward to seeing him. So much so that you were  _ grumpy  _ about it now. 

“He’s coming tomorrow, laserbrain,” you growled to yourself. “Go eat lunch and simmer down.” Marching into the foyer, you plucked your datapad and light jacket from the loveseat before striding out of the studio towards the lift. 

\- - - - -

The following day, you were feeling a little less cantankerous. No progress on the piece you’d been working on was made, but you’d begun thinking instead about the portrait, about how it would progress. Little notions of how you might work at one spot or another flitted into your mind as you gazed upon it, and you’d begun to feel hopeful about its eventual culmination into something you could be proud of.

Something its subject might be proud of, too. 

When the Grand Admiral arrived that afternoon, though, you weren’t expecting Vanto to come with him. 

“Ah, Laureate,” said Thrawn in his cool voice as he and the shorter, human man entered the foyer. “I must thank you again for allowing us to move dates at the last moment. This is Commander Vanto, whom you spoke to yesterday.” 

Vanto stepped forward and offered his hand and a smile that was a little reserved. “It’s nice to meet you properly, Laureate,” he said. 

You shook hands with him, your usual powerful but brief handshake, and pushed a smile up onto your face. “Commander, yes, the same to you.”

“I believe that the Commander would like to stay and observe at least some part of our session today, if that’s possible,” Thrawn said. 

Every muscle you had tensed. You felt suddenly very…  _ intruded  _ upon. Not simply due to the looming possibility that someone else, in watching you work, would spot your wholly ridiculous reaction to the Admiral’s presence. Oh no, if that weren’t bad enough, now you also felt strangely possessive of your time with him, the brief and baffling hours you got to spend focusing on him, alone. There was no molecule in your body that believed that anything would come of these forays into your own tangled thicket of an inner emotional landscape. But they were yours, dammit. 

There was no way you were about to say no. Because there was no good reason, other than your petulance, which wasn’t good at all. So, you glanced between the two men.

“Of course, Commander Vanto may stay as long as he likes,” you said. 

“Thank you, Laureate, that’s very kind of you,” Vanto replied.

“Certainly. If you’ll come this way, Commander, I can find you a chair.”

It was all set up, Vanto seated just out of your primary field of vision just to keep distractions minimal. You were at your easel, the sun was filling the massive room, and Thrawn was the picture of dignity on his stool, legs crossed and hands in his lap. There was no idle chat as you began working, and you were sure you were obviously stiff, but the quiet was a blessing. At least the Chiss had his jacket on, and so you stood some little chance of preserving your own dignity.

You were just getting comfortable when Thrawn finally spoke.

“Did you ever see the portrait gallery at the palace, Commander?” he asked Vanto. For a moment, there was no reply. You’d been focusing on a certain shadow on the board, but glanced up to see Thrawn side-eyeing his commander expectantly. 

“Commander.” Now you actually looked over, and Vanto was apparently daydreaming while gazing at the still life in the opposite corner of the studio. You glanced between him and the Admiral, uncertain if you should intervene. 

“Eli,” Thrawn growled, and this seemed to snap the other man back to his senses. You felt a rock settle in your gullet.

_ Eli? _

“Sorry, sir, what was that?” Vanto asked, looking sheepish.

“I was just asking if you’d ever seen the other portraits in the palace gallery.”

“Oh! Actually, no, I’ve never had the pleasure. I haven’t spent much time at the palace, or on Coruscant at all. If I’d known there was a portrait gallery, I might’ve found a way to spend more time there to have a look.” Vanto seemed genuine enough, you thought, and this had the effect of only just smoothing down your ruffled hackles.

“It’s not a place I spend much time in either, to be fair,” you said. Who did spend much time at the palace, other than the Emperor and his guard? Even his favorite officers were scattered across the galaxy most of the time, not lounging in the sculpture garden.

“Well, I’ve heard more than one person speak highly of your work, now,” Vanto said. “So maybe I’ll pay a visit there the next time I’m able to.” 

Your face warmed a little. Was Thrawn speaking highly of you to other people, now? Who  _ else  _ was? “Please, don’t feel obligated,” you said, leaning closer to the board for a more delicate stroke of your brush. “I know you Navy officers have your hands full more often than not.” 

“It might be easier to see your other works, if they’re hanging elsewhere,” Thrawn mused. “Getting into the Palace is a rarity in and of itself. Pray, is there a gallery on Coruscant where we might see other of your pieces?”

The look you gave him and the commander must’ve been like a krugga deer caught in floodlights. Not a single human soul to pass through this studio had ever suggested such a thing.

“Um, well, I…” Your voice trailed off as you tried through the haze to answer his question. Did you have any work hanging right now? Which pieces did you want to direct anyone, much less  _ Grand kriffing Admiral Thrawn, _ to go see? What were even the names of the galleries you were in contact with, again? “I haven’t hung anything recently, so um, I’d have to think about it, I mean, it’s probably one or two pieces at most, not like a whole show or anything—”

“No need to go into any research about it, Laureate. I’m sure I can look you up on the infonet,” Vanto said cheerfully. 

“Um, alright. Sorry, I just… I’m not used to clients asking about my personal work,” you said, head shrinking into your shoulders a little. 

“I think it would be most fascinating, since it sounds from our prior conversations to be quite different from what you are employed to create.” Thrawn was looking at you intently once more, though his voice remained ever on an even keel. Now your face was hot, and there was a smile bullying its way onto your cheeks.

“Thank you for taking an interest, sir.” 

“Have you made any progress with your bones and fabric?” 

“Er, well, I’ve sort of hit a wall with it,” you replied, eyes flickering between Thrawn’s forehead and your painting as you continued desperately to try and work while you also deteriorated into a blushing, mumbling mess. 

“How do you mean?” Thrawn asked. 

“Just can’t seem to get a composition that I like. Nothing is, um, speaking to me. I’ve been thinking I should consider another subject, because everything I draw from that still life feels sort of hollow.” You spared the hodgepodge of newsprint drawings, both taped to the wall and scattered around the floor near the still life, a baleful glance. Artistic constipation was a terrible thing to feel, the urge to create without any outlet presenting satisfactorily.

“What sort of subjects do you typically consider?” 

“Thrawn, the artist is working,” Vanto murmured, looking at the Admiral. 

“Apologies,” the Chiss replied, and you thought it very strange that he should bend so quickly to anyone’s gentle chide, much less his reporting officer’s. 

_ Unless… _

“It’s alright, the Grand Admiral and I often talk while I work,” you said to Vanto, looking at him a little more closely than you had before. “Though, I have to admit, he asks me an awful lot of questions. Maybe now that you’re here, I can ask a few.”

You realized that your suspicions about the nature of the two men’s relationship had emboldened you very suddenly, and wondered why you let your mouth talk when your brain wasn’t caught up with it for the hundred thousandth time in your life. 

Vanto seemed nonplussed. “Sure, what would you like to know?” he asked.

“Within the confines of our military classification rules, of course,” Thrawn added, tone going a few degrees cooler. You had a feeling that this was not directed at you, though.

“I just wondered how long you two have been working together, as you seem to know one another well,” you said, eyes on your brush.

“I was the Admiral’s translator for some time towards the end of my Academy education and the beginning of our military careers,” Vanto said. “I’ve just been serving with him since then, really.” 

“Commander Vanto is a study in humility,” Thrawn said in his more usual impassive voice. “He was on track to become a supply officer. But I seek potential, and there was a great deal more in him than he believed. Now, he’s quite successful, and very much earned his rank.” 

You had no idea what affection actually sounded like, coming from a Chiss. Someone as profoundly reserved as Thrawn, with so little evident emotion and such an abundance of calculating intelligence, was unlikely to lavish such a thing on anybody, it seemed. But he spoke highly of Vanto, just the same way he spoke highly of you, apparently. Now you had no idea if the two men were somehow involved with one another, or if you were both at precisely the same level of professional appreciation with simply more time and proximity coloring their relationship than would ever be able to affect yours and Thrawn’s. 

“I did hear that you both rose in ranks very quickly, maybe more quickly than anyone ever did,” you said, taking a dark purple to the top of the board as you began to fill out his hair. “But, considering who championed you, it seemed warranted to me. Even if the stories about why and what happened are krayt spit, Yularen wouldn’t put his neck out for just anybody, I don’t think. I’m happy for you.” 

There was every attempt to keep the strains of bitterness and disappointment from the last sentence, but you weren’t sure you succeeded. It wasn’t that you coveted their ease with each other; Vanto seemed a very honest soul, and not without his own intelligence even if it wasn’t wrapped up in eloquence. He had all the airs of a good person to have on your team, and if Thrawn spoke so, then you didn’t doubt it. Rather, you simply found yourself wishing that you could have the same sort of bond, the same ease around the Admiral. Perhaps it would only pain your fool heart, you thought, but damned if you didn’t find yourself pining like an idiot, anyway. 

“Thank you, Laureate. Do you know Admiral Yularen well?” asked Vanto, and his pleasant tone made you feel a little less worried that you’d sounded pouty.

You shook your head. “Not well. I only got to know him through the process of painting him, really. But there’s a kind of… exchange, between artist and subject, that leaves an impression. His was no-nonsense, smart, and very determined.”

“I’d say that’s a fair description,” Vanto said. “I’m curious as to your impression of Admiral Thrawn, then.” 

_ That  _ was not what you’d expected. Vanto was throwing you through every possible loop, today. You froze a little, your throat going dry. You pushed extra paint around on the board, too startled to look up at Thrawn when you could feel his eyes on you. 

“Well, this is only the fifth session,” you muttered.

“That’s alright, we can always ask again when you’re done and see if anything’s changed.” Vanto was smiling, all artless friendliness. 

“Um.” You bit your lip, suddenly bereft of descriptors even though you knew with painful clarity exactly what your impression of Thrawn was. “I suppose that intelligent goes without saying,” you began slowly, focusing more on the brush as it moved than on the words. You glanced up at his striking blue face, up at the temple you’d been building the shadow for. “It’s almost too easy to say that. I think, more importantly, that my impression so far is… um, certainty. That a goal, once identified, is an inevitability. That the Admiral is not just intelligent, or confident, or capable, but that he’d use these things to their utmost to accomplish something.”

If there was a change in Thrawn’s face, you couldn’t quite tell. But you’d spoken, and managed not to say something completely foolish, you didn’t think. It wasn’t the  _ extent  _ of your impression of the Chiss, but it was the most salient part you could begin to articulate in front of his commander. The sound of your brush on the board became conspicuously loud for a moment, the only sound save for the low apprehensive drum of your heart in your ears. 

Vanto was leaning back in his chair, hand on his bare chin, brown eyes cut over at Thrawn. He seemed almost amused. In the back of your mind, you wondered why he’d baited you like that.  _ Had  _ it been a bait?

“I’d say that’s more than a fair description,” he said. “Wouldn’t you, Thrawn?” 

“Most have simply referred to it as stubbornness,” Thrawn replied. “That was a much more generous way of putting it.” 

You glanced up at him, and there it was, that specter of a smile, the one you couldn’t help but question every time you saw it. It almost always seemed a little smug— maybe it was his distinct brow, or the powerful cut of his aquiline nose and cheekbones. Maybe it was the fact that you simply  _ thought  _ you were spotting a minute tweak of a muscle that may or may not have been real, and so what you saw always carried the potential for mocking you. 

This time, it wasn’t quite smug.

“Well, I speak as I find,” you said. Your hand stalled at the board, and your eyes slipped over into his as if by accident. Their glow, faint in the sunshine, was opaque. If human hearts sang through their eyes, then you wondered where the kriff a Chiss’ heart made itself known. If you’d hazarded a guess, you’d have said Thrawn was pleased by this account. But there would be no confidence in your vote, no certainty to back it up. The lack of apparent anger, however, you’d take as a sign of hope.

It took just a moment for you to rip your gazes apart, and you laid in a little stroke of an eyelid on the painting before you took to your palette, blending two colors, seeking a shadowy blue. Seeking a way out of that moment, and the unending ambiguity of everything the Grand Admiral did. 

“It’ll be interesting to see what your final judgement is,” Vanto said at length. Then he rose from his chair, attention back on Thrawn. “If I may, though, we’re coming up on time. I’ll go and bring the speeder around. Sir.”

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” replied the Chiss.

“Right. It was lovely to meet you, Laureate. I hope we meet again, sometime.” 

You looked up at the man, a faint if somewhat obligatory smile at the corner of your mouth. “I hope so too, Commander, and I hope you enjoyed your time here.”

“It was most interesting, thank you. I’ll be waiting down on the street level.”

“Very good,” Thrawn said, not looking or moving his head at all. Vanto turned and ambled out of the studio, through the foyer, and into the hall. You kept on brushing, watching the paint start to blend, face still flushed with how awkward you felt. 

“I hope the Commander’s questions didn’t bother you,” said Thrawn after a long moment. You glanced back at him, focusing intently on his chin.

“Um, no, they just surprised me a little,” you said quietly.

“If anything was untoward—”

“Admiral, it’s alright.” The smile that left its impression on your face wasn’t quite in good humor. “I’m just… I’m at a difficult moment in the piece, I think, and it might have flustered me. But Commander Vanto seems very nice.” 

It would be too easy to get upset about Vanto being here stirring the pot, if that was even what he was doing. It wasn’t Vanto’s fault that the pot was already set to boil. You took a breath, letting your chest collapse a little with the exhale. Maybe they were in some kind of nice, committed, monogamous relationship. Maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t committed, or monogamous. But still,  _ no  _ option being true increased the chances of what you found yourself wanting. Hell, you could be reading way too far into the two men’s exchange, seeing as you’d been doing that to Thrawn by himself for some time now. The sense of being crestfallen that you felt spreading its blight over your heart was highly unwarranted.

And yet, there it was. 

“If I might be of assistance, please inform me,” Thrawn said. “I have tried to replicate a similar light every time I am here.”

“I know,” you said, and now the smile was more real by way of being more wistful. “I appreciate that, by the way. You’ve been a great sitter, really. This is between me and the paint.” 

_ Between me and my own stupidity,  _ you thought.

“Alright,” Thrawn conceded. “I will trust you, as always.”

At that moment, his alarm sounded. He hushed it quickly, and you were grateful that the noise was possibly just as abrasive to him in the soft studio quiet as it was to you. Your eyes stayed on the painting, flicking a brush over it without really seeing it. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“I think every artist does this,” you sighed. “Gets to the point where they… lose faith in the piece. And they want to give up.”

“What do you do at such a time?” His voice was even more quiet than usual, though just as steady and polite.

You looked at the painting, then finally mustered the courage to look back up at him. “I push through it. Because it ends, and something right happens. Usually.” 

Thrawn regarded you for just a moment before he detached from the stool. “No change of strategy?”

“It’s a crisis of the self, not a crisis of the materials or the approach.” You too rose to your feet and fell in beside the Admiral on the way to the foyer. A familiar pattern, the only part of today’s session that felt familiar at all. 

“I see.” He paused, facing you before he took his leave. “You have no reason to doubt yourself,  _ euhn in'a. _ I have seen only a portion of your work, and it is singular. Take that as you will. I am no artist. But I see no evidence that suggests you are likely to fail.”

You blinked at him, a little thrown that he would, in his terminally clinical way, try to reassure you. Would take pity on you, in your moment of miserable and baseless self-pity. He didn’t understand how you’d carefully drawn the metaphor of the painting over your feelings, of course. 

“Thank you, sir,” you said. “That is very kind of you to say.” 

“I’ll see you next week, then?” 

“Of course.”

He did his half-bow. “Farewell, then, Laureate. ‘Till then.” All you did was smile, and it was at least half honest. 

When he was gone, you took a huge, slow breath and turned it into a huge, slow sigh. You weren’t quite ready to weep, it wasn’t  _ that  _ serious. But you still had a generous plate of huge bummer to tuck into for the rest of your evening. 

“This is why there was a rule about this, you know,” you muttered, rubbing your forehead. You resolved to have a glass of wine with dinner, and then get over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided that the infonet is like star wars 411 lmao. the holonet being like star wars internet of course.


	6. fallow period

You thought that the way you felt before the sixth session of Thrawn’s portrait was numbness. A sense of emptiness, resignation; the idea that when you saw him next, having pushed your own absurd emotions from your mind for a week, you wouldn’t respond with anything like the bewildered excitement you had before. It would be easier to become professional, impersonal, attentive without trepidation. Maybe you’d finally get around to painting the base layer of his eyes in now that they might carry less weight.

You really thought that, and to be fair, you were almost right.

Thrawn arrived exactly on time, as ever, in the same white uniform. The same black boots. The same impenetrable gaze. There was a faint stir when you looked at him— Maker knew, he had not become less attractive just because you’d resolved to become less attracted to him. His movements were still so laden with surety and power that it was hard not to be drawn into the magnetism of it. But everything was quite tolerable, without the fanfare of your prior interactions to send your guts into a churn. 

“How are you this afternoon, Laureate?” he asked as he walked beside you to the easel. 

“I’m alright, and you?” It wasn’t buoyant, but it was true.

“I am well. Have you had any luck with the painting since last we met?” 

_Aw, he’s worried about the painting._ Of course he was, because after all, it _was_ going on a wall in the Imperial Palace for the foreseeable future. Your smile was subdued. “I haven’t looked at it much. It was time to step away and see if what I returned to, I understood better.” 

“Ah, yes. We shall see, then.” 

The routine of it, of him settling into his pose on the stool and you taking up your brush and palette, settling behind the easel, and letting your eyes find the part of his face that called out for more paint, was calming. 

“How is Commander Vanto?” you found yourself asking, and it really wasn’t as passive aggressive or prying as you’d expected. You were certain to feel something along those lines, but had resolved to ask anyway. To be polite.

“The Commander is quite well, thank you for asking. He and I had the privilege of exploring some ancient Zabrak ruins, covered in very early artwork that appears to be quite unique, two standard days ago.”

Your ears perked a little at that. “Oh, really? Did you take any holos?” 

“Only a few, and not terribly well, I’m afraid. We could not take the time to do them justice. But, I mean to return there to do so properly, and perhaps obtain a piece for my collection,” he said. His voice never wavered from its smooth timbre, yet this time you could tell that he was pleased, even if just academically, about his find. 

“And it’s never been recorded before?” you asked, glancing between him and the board as you carried on working. 

“Not that I have been able to find.”

“ _That’s_ very interesting.”

“Yes, it was quite curious, unlike other work I’ve seen from ancient Zabrak artists. Their style is typically angular, and the early works have a primitive quality that is quite raw, and very much speaks to their culture.”

“Yes, they were warriors. Fighters, really, at that stage. I guess we assumed they hadn’t developed the cunning they’re known for, but as their work grew in refinement, that was likely when their fighting also became more sophisticated. Or so the scholars say,” you mused, recalling your art history classes. The images from those holos were still in your mind, vivid because their anger and fear and instinctive relentlessness had been unmistakable. 

“Precisely,” Thrawn said. “But, these ruins speak to a different history altogether.” 

“How so?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“These were still very geometric in design, but they were also much less charged with what I can only call the savagery we associate with their early art. There were patterns that were broken, I believe intentionally, in their designs. The sophistication you speak of, it was subtle but clear on those walls. _Very_ interesting, when you compare it to the social evolution that’s been assumed from what we already know.” There was a distinct sense of something like excitement coming from the Chiss, not in his inflection or his movement but in the way that he was delving into the subject. The words, the way they invited discussion, beckoned you to join.

“You can date these before the other Zabrak works?” 

“Yes, beyond doubt.”

The absolute certainty in that phrase was only slightly ominous. Clearly, some military engagement had allowed him to determine a few things. “So... our records are incomplete, then. There’s at least one new era of Zabrak art, predating the others, showing a change away from its subtlety and patterns into more… emotional works that lacked refinement later on?”

“It would seem so.” 

“Just making sure I understand what you’re positing.” Your paint was behaving, the automatic movements that were ingrained into your muscle memory pulling it smoothly over the under-layers while you thought. “Do you have any guess as to why that might be, Admiral?” 

“Do you?” His eyes seemed to glimmer again, though Maker knew you could never be sure. You considered for a moment, folding this new information around with what you knew about the rest of Zabrak history. 

“Well, we know that the Zabrak men are currently ruled, for lack of a better word, by the women. Did you find these ruins on Dathomir, or Iridonia?” 

“I wonder if you can guess,” Thrawn said, and you saw a muscle in his brow raise slightly. 

“Well, I would assume that, since this predates the art we know of already, that you were on Iridonia when you found it. The oldest art we’ve dated currently is from there, supposedly concurrent with the departure of the first colonies to Dathomir. If it was on Dathomir, it likely isn’t Zabrak,” you said, rubbing your finger over your chin for a moment in thought.

“I suspected as much. You’re right, these ruins were on Iridonia.” 

“That means that before the Zabrak culture became what we know it to be, there was an entire era of their history on Iridonia that we haven’t even _heard_ about until now.” You blinked, pausing in your work as the realization hit you. “That’s… that’s _amazing._ Do you think it was hidden from outsiders on purpose?” 

“I very much suspect that it was, though it may also have been hidden from the clans that remained on Iridonia,” Thrawn replied. “The locals seemed as surprised to find it as we were.”

“Wow,” you muttered, resuming the strokes of your brush. “I hope you plan to report this to the historical archives, sir. This will be _very_ exciting for them.” 

“Once I have proper information to report, I plan to. I can bring you the holos before I send them on to the archives, to look at. Or, make copies for you to keep, if you desire.” 

You looked up at him more quickly than you ever had. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s no trouble,” he replied coolly. 

“I… I would like to have copies, yes. Thank you, sir, thank you very much.” Your heart was beating with a mostly wholesome excitement, this time. Brand new, undiscovered Zabrak art? A whole prior evolution and change of culture for an entire species, that had lain hidden in the deep places of a planet for Maker knew how long? That elated your inner art historian, who had been dormant for quite some time. You could hear the university archivists now, practically squealing with delight when they got ahold of this data. 

“It’s my pleasure. I rarely meet someone who shares my fascination with art and culture. It would appear that most of those beings work in the archives.” The smile that was unmistakable was back, and you returned it. He’d made a dry joke again. 

“You may be right,” you chuckled. “But I’m no better, here in my little glass castle. I’m not out discovering things as much as they aren’t.” 

“Perhaps one day you’ll have the opportunity,” Thrawn said. “Until then, I will gladly bring what I find to you.” 

“That is more than I could ever ask, but I won’t send you away if you do it.” 

The two of you settled back into silence, easy and focused. You plugged away at your painting, and slowly one or two areas were just beginning to resemble their final form. The light was gentle, the quiet was gentle, and you felt less inner turmoil than you ever had in Thrawn’s presence. You were inordinately pleased that he’d offered to bring you his holos, and you were pleased that he actually smiled, and you were pleased that he’d once again made a little joke. Suddenly his intentions didn’t seem obfuscated by either his own opacity or your errant desire, and you enjoyed his company without the flutter of a fool’s heart which had so often led you astray anyway. You hadn’t quite met his eyes fully this round, but that was alright. _One step at a time,_ you told yourself. 

The chirp of the timer drew you out of your steady focus, alerting you that it was time to wrap up your session. The lack of confusion and frustration seemed to lend themselves to your finding a tidy stroke to end on, slipping your brushes into the turpentine and setting down your palette. 

“And how does the work go today?” Thrawn asked as he turned off his wrist comm. 

“The painting? It’s looking pretty good, to be not quite half done,” you said, giving it a last once-over before you walked around the easel to carry on through the rest of the routine. 

“So you are confident in its progress once more?” 

You blinked, having nearly forgotten that you’d claimed to feel bad about the painting rather than the Chiss. That was how smoothly the day had gone. “Oh, yes. It’s starting to take shape, finally. The details take longer to do, but it’s nice to start seeing what you wanted to see.”

“Good.” When he stopped in the foyer, you turned to face him with a smile that didn’t quite move your cheeks even though it wasn’t a fabrication, either. The session had gone well, after all, and that was something of a relief. Now it would end well, you thought, and you could adapt and move on with your inner life.

Then, he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing just a little. You felt a tiny thrill run through your nerves, a tension that smacked of your old ways. For a split second, you froze, but then you relaxed as you pushed away your impulses.

“Pardon me, but…” he said, and then he stepped closer again. Now he was _very_ close, looking down at you, the red beam of his gaze focused on your lips. 

Instantly, your heart started pounding and your body abandoned all semblance of control. You stared up at him, saucer-eyed, bewildered, and one hundred percent aware that you were hopelessly lost to whatever was about to happen. There was no resistance at all.

_What the kriff—_

You felt his hand come up close to your face, and suddenly his thumb was swiping over your chin, fingers settled beneath it to grip you ever so gently. 

“You seem to have gotten paint on your face,” he said with all the apparent neutrality in the universe. But his touch on your chin was so tender, so considerate, that it stole your breath away with no intention of ever giving it back. The oil paint must’ve made its way onto your chin during your discussion about the Zabrak art. His strokes tugged your bottom lip away from the top one as you felt yourself begin to ooze towards the floor. 

There was no looking away from his face, not this close. Not when his eyes were settled on your chin while he gripped you there lightly with his thumb and forefinger, your mouth fallen slack, your whole body aching with the _hunger_ you’d so dutifully repressed. It was still there, in all its former glory, having never expected a moment to return with such a vengeance but seizing the opportunity as it reared its ugly head. Oh yes, you were long gone all over again.

Suddenly there was another sensation, and you realized that he’d pulled some sort of handkerchief from his pocket and was wiping the rest of the stubborn paint away with it in short little strokes. Your eyelashes fluttered, your senses almost overwhelmed with the shock. 

“There.” He drew the kerchief away, glancing over your chin one last time before releasing it from his hand. He was wiping the paint from his own finger onto the cloth now, before tucking it back into his pocket. 

“Th-thank you,” you said, shaken to your core. 

“Shall I see you again next week?” he asked in his airy coo.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Next week.”

“I look forward to it. Good afternoon, Laureate.” 

“And to you, Admiral.”

Off he went, dragging your composure and professionalism out of the door behind him. You couldn’t hear anything but the blood in your ears. By your sides, your hands shook a little. And in your guts, you were collapsing into a ruinous quagmire of longing.

Thrawn, the master of detachment, the maestro of aloof examination, the absolute kriffing _king_ of attentive, impassive observation, had just very sweetly and politely wiped paint off of your chin. 

You had no idea how long you stood there, rooted to the spot as you felt your resolve drain away. _Maker above,_ you thought, _what just happened?_ But there was nothing you could do, no conclusion you could draw, no way to know if that was normal Chiss behavior between professional acquaintances. It seemed incredibly unlikely that it was, of course, but nothing about it added up. And it wasn’t like he’d made a move afterwards, right? 

In the empty foyer, you found yourself suddenly and keenly aware of just how screwed you were. There was no getting out of this. Nodding to yourself, as though you had no reason to expect anything else would happen anyway, you laid your fingertips on your chin. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there. 

“Kriff.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK WHO'S BACK ON THEIR BULLSHIT xD


	7. light

Once in a while, when your usual coping mechanisms for the tendency of your brain to have too many thoughts weren’t quite as medicinal as usual, you’d find yourself awake in the wee hours of the morning, nestled under the working lamps of the studio in a haze of production. It wasn’t always creative— sometimes it was just technical exercises, or playing with a medium to see what you could get out of it, or taking a couple million holos of yourself to try and get a pose you really wanted. 

But once in a while, it was an idea that clawed at its cage in your mind with so much gusto that it drove you upstairs to see itself made manifest. Sometimes those pieces were a mess; a manic blueprint of something that was to come, if you bothered to see it through. Other times they were an entire work sprung fully formed from the toil of your hands. And sometimes they were an exercise in futility, a taunt in the form of a pile of false starts that bore no fruit, leaving you tired and sullen as the morning light made its slow crawl between the scrapers of Coruscant. 

Those were caf mornings, the ones where your entire night felt wasted and harried with the unmet desire for an idea to make itself an image. The high of creation when it came together with execution would leave you in bliss, keen to have a nap and then get on with your day to retire early the following evening. But banging your hands into paper for hours only to come up dry as a bone meant that even if you did catch a nap, there weren’t enough happy chemicals left in your brain to push you through the day without a little help. 

Needless to say, these fugues had a tendency to throw off your schedule. So, when you awoke to the sound of your wall comm beeping, nestled into the less-than-accommodating loveseat in your studio foyer with your neck bent at a weird angle, it took you a moment to realize what was happening.

“Laureate, the Grand Admiral has arrived for your session today,” said C4-10. 

“Shit!” you hissed, nearly leaping to your feet. You sped over to the comm to reply. “If he’d be so kind as to give me about five minutes, I’ll be ready.”

A brief crackle of silence. Then, “The Grand Admiral says that is fine, and he will come up in five minutes.” 

“Thank you!” you said into the comm, grateful beyond belief that neither the droid nor the Chiss were feeling impatient that day. It was almost a dead sprint that took you to the ‘fresher, where you stowed a couple of hygiene items for just this sort of problem. 

At least you had showered and climbed into bed before the restlessness shook you out of it the night before, and had the wherewithal to put on fresh painting clothes. You looked just about as tired as you felt, but you weren’t boasting a strange smell or any other mortification.

But Maker, the lack of time to get caf before the seventh session with Thrawn was _not_ ideal in the slightest. 

You were just turning the corner back into the foyer, as presentable as you could manage being, when the door opened to admit the tall, blue man who featured so heavily on your mind lately. 

“Hello, Admiral,” you said hastily, as if to rush away how obvious it was that you’d barely cobbled yourself together in time to greet him.

“Good afternoon, Laureate,” he replied, perfectly smooth and unruffled. “I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

“Er, no, sir.” _Just my nap, which I shouldn’t have been taking in the first place,_ you thought. 

“It’s just that I’ve read about the sometimes unpredictable nature of creativity. If you were working on something else, I would not wish to disturb you.”

That made no sense for a client to say, really. But it… kind of completely made sense for Thrawn to say, if you thought about it. 

“Well, sir, it’s my responsibility to prepare for your sessions with me, so even if I were making progress on another piece I’d be more than willing to stop for you,” you said. Not even the troubled glow of your last session could break through the fog of your sleep deprivation. You rubbed your wrist, which was a little achy again, and turned towards the studio. “We should begin, though, as I’ve wasted time already. I’m sorry.” 

“Quite alright,” he said, filing in behind you. At least the portrait was already set up most of the time, you thought. Shuffling behind the easel, you found yourself looking over the image with bleary eyes while you rubbed your neck, stiff from sleeping on it badly. Your mind was slow to start its usual annotations.

You glanced up towards his stool, but for some reason Thrawn was not there. He was, in fact, standing almost beside the easel, much closer than usual. Barring that one time he’d wiped paint off your chin, of course. Your heart finally started to thud the way it was supposed to in his presence. 

“Laureate, are you certain you’re feeling alright?” he asked with passive curiosity. 

“I’m just tired,” you replied, glancing up at him. “I… didn’t sleep very much.” 

“Does something trouble you?” 

Was Thrawn inquiring after your personal wellbeing, or your professional development? “Um, no, just one of those unpredictable creative bursts hit me last night,” you admitted a little sheepishly. “I could use some caf, to be perfectly honest, sir.” You wondered how many ‘sirs’ would make up for cutting into your time with him even further for the sake of procuring a beverage.

“If that will help, I am glad to facilitate it. Perhaps fresh air, as well.” His red eyes flickered out the window ever so briefly. “We could relocate today’s session out of doors. I believe there’s a park nearby.”

You blinked. “Wouldn’t that take too long? The park is ten minutes away, at least when I walk there.”

“I have rather more leeway in my schedule today than usual,” he said. 

“But sir, I’d have to take all of my materials with me, it’ll be much more trouble than it’s worth—”

“Nonsense. I am quite capable of assisting you.” 

And damned if he didn’t wrap his considerable blue hands around the sides of the board of wroshyr wood, the ends of his fingers hovering just above the still-wet oil paint and the crisp cuffs of his white sleeves dangerously close to them as he began to lift the painting.

“Wait!” you cried, eyes flying wide open; before you could think at all your hands flew out over his, stopping his movement. “Sir! You’ll get paint on your uniform!” 

For a moment, time stood still as your gaze swept up from the painting to his face. The instant your hands touched his, his eyes locked on you with the all alacrity and focus of a predator. That look made its way into your bones, despite there being no obvious intent behind it. You weren’t sure if you were trapped out of fear or total captivation.

“S-sorry,” you muttered, breaking the spell by sliding your hands away from his surprisingly warm blue skin to grip further down the painting. But he was letting you tug it away, back onto the easel. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” he said, and there was a specter of _gentleness_ in his voice. “I appreciate your concern, Laureate.” He glanced down at his palms as though inspecting for paint, but apparently found nothing offensive there.

“I have a shielded carrying case,” you said quietly. “Here, let me find it…”

You must’ve gathered your materials in record time, with Thrawn not so much insisting on carrying the large board in its case as simply slinging the strap over his shoulder once you’d secured it. The shield on the case was military-grade for keeping the wet paint intact, protecting it from everything from dust to UV rays to solid objects that bumped up against it. You had a portable turpentine filter and a little case for brushes and towels, too. The Empire kept you well-supplied. 

In contrast to the more technically advanced travel accessories, you’d made a pouch that wasn’t much more than a fabric sling out of some spare canvas that you put all your paint tubes into. The palette closed rather neatly as well, so it went in alongside them. Before you knew it, and with very little fuss after the wet paint scare, you and Grand Admiral Thrawn were headed down to the street level. C4-10 looked very confused, for something with no way to physically change its facial expression, when you passed the building’s lobby desk, but said nothing. 

“Well, it _is_ a lovely day out,” you said almost to yourself as the walk began. Coruscant was a riot of air traffic and all the accompanying clamor of it, but the high noon sun wasn’t terribly hot even as it gleamed off of the durasteel buildings that surrounded the walkway. Your eyes danced around, despite seeing the scenery a thousand times before, always scanning for something new in the prismatic shift of activity.

“Where would you like to go for your caf?” Thrawn asked. It might’ve been the most casual sentence you’d ever heard him say, but he said it in the same tone that he said everything else.

“There’s a little walk-up window I like, it’s on our way actually.” You could see the turn up ahead; the park was quite literally one left turn away from your building, and you’d walked there many times before. Just never in any situation that quite paralleled this one.

“Then by all means, lead the way.”

So you carried along until you drew up to the cafe window, greeting the Twi’lek girl who always seemed to be the one working there whenever you came by.

“Hi, Zheela,” you said with a tired smile. She leaned forward on her elbows when she saw you, smiling back.

“Hey big shot,” she replied, as cheerful and energized as you were confused and bedraggled. “You here for your usual?” 

“Yes, please, only make it double.” 

“You got it.” She gave a sidelong glance at Thrawn, who was standing there carrying half your supplies and holding a perfectly pin-straight posture, tall and broad-shouldered and far too formal to be hauling behind a paint-splattered urchin like yourself. Zheela said nothing, turning back towards the inside of her speck of a business here on a main alley on the upper levels of Coruscant. 

“Would you like anything, sir?” you asked, turning to look at the Admiral. He was watching you, as per usual, his expression blank but for being observant. 

“No thank you, Laureate. If you require payment—”

“I have a tab,” you cut him off, face flushing. “They see a lot of me here.”

He nodded slightly. “Alright.”

Thrawn offering to pay for your caf was strangely embarrassing. Then again, you realized, being seen in public with him at all was embarrassing. Everyone stared at the man; not that you could blame them, but by extension, now everyone stared at _you_ as he hung close to your orbit carrying what was obviously your stuff. You were both so wildly out of place, particularly together, that the passers-by seemed unable to look away. The wait for Zheela to turn back around and hand you a piping hot cup of the nectar of life felt longer than it was, but once she did you felt your shoulders sag with relief.

“Thank you,” you sighed gratefully, immediately lifting the lid just slightly to take a massive inhale. Its scent wafted into your nose, the only thing that felt like home as much as your paint-marked button downs. 

“Sure thing, babe,” she replied breezily. “Who’s your boyfriend?” Now she was glancing over at Thrawn again, raising an eyebrow. You froze momentarily, blood clamoring up to your cheeks. 

“He’s not my boyfriend, Zheela, he’s my _client,_ ” you hissed.

“Oooh okay.” But she was winking at you, like there was some secret you two shared that somehow you weren’t actually in on. “I got ya.”

“I’ll see you later, okay?” And you scooted away before she could say anything else more genuinely mortifying, hurrying along the walkway. It was a small mercy that Thrawn apparently decided not to say anything about her comments; you knew that he’d heard it, despite your lowered voice, because that seemed to be what Thrawn did. Notice _everything._

By some miracle, the two of you arrived at the entrance to the park’s platform in one piece. Under its arch were potted flowers, but beyond there was lush blue-green grass, trees, hanging vines, fountains, little sequestered benches like lover’s hideaways wrapped in foliage. You didn’t need foliage, though, you needed light. 

“Well,” you said, casting about to pick a direction in which to march, “I suppose we’ll keep to the west side. Someplace a little empty, I don’t like people behind me watching unless they’re invited. And I need something to diffuse the light a little.” 

“If my memory serves, there are a few spots down this way that may work quite well,” Thrawn replied. “Come, and you may choose the one that’s to your best liking.” 

_Oh, I guess he’s been here before,_ you thought as you took to the path beside him. Why, or when exactly, were beyond your reckoning. Your caf was slowly cooling; you sipped it gingerly. 

“Humans are very fond of this beverage you call caf,” Thrawn mused idly as you walked. “Or, at least the humans aboard the _Chimaera_ seem to be.”

“It does wake us up a bit," you said.

“So it acts as a stimulant?”

“Most of the time, though not for every human. And, we get acclimated to it awfully quickly, it seems.”

“If its effect is inconsistent, why not refine it more fully?” he asked, looking down at you. 

“Sometimes I think it’s the association we have with it, the sense memory of it, that’s more important,” you replied, holding the cup in both of your hands and very close to your nose. Closing your eyes, you took another long, slow inhale. A smile came over your face almost involuntarily. “It helps me wake up, sure, but it also just makes me happy.” 

Now his red eyes were more keen, watching as you took in the uplifting experience of your drink. Before you could get too abashed about it, though, you spotted a place that looked ideal for your portrait session.

“Oh! That’s a good one,” you said, pointing ahead. Doubling your pace, you trotted towards a patch of grass flanked on one side by low trees and on the other by a row of queen’s heart bushes, the red flames of their blooms brilliant in the sun. There was a spot that was sure to get more direct light until well past your usual ending time, and a spot with a little more shade that would keep the glare off your wet paint. Thrawn did not hurry, simply watching you evaluate the space as he approached. 

“Does it work well for you?” he asked. You spun back towards him, smiling.

“Yes! This is perfect.” 

“How do you plan to set it up?”

“Wait, let me show you something,” you said, feeling a little impish as you beckoned him to take the painting off of his shoulder. He did so, holding it upright in front of you. “Now, watch.” 

You reached to rotate a little knob on the back of the durasteel case. As you did, three telescoping legs emerged from their hidden places in the frame of it, creating an impromptu easel out of thin air.

“Ah, very clever,” Thrawn said, setting the thing down gently onto the ground. 

“Isn’t it nice? It’s so helpful.” You’d already taken off the sling of paints around your shoulder, and were busying yourself setting up a little work space. “Are you alright with standing?” you asked cheerfully, looking back up at him. 

The expression on his face caught you off-guard. That smile, the one that wasn’t quite obvious enough to feel real, was lingering above you, watching with eyes that for one moment seemed to be really feeling something— was it pride? It was so impossible to say, with him.

Then you realized you’d nearly gotten _bubbly_ in the past few minutes. _Maker,_ you thought, _I haven’t had nearly enough caf to be this animated._

“Standing is perfectly acceptable,” he said after just a moment. “Only show me where to do so.” 

Feeling yourself flood with the usual brand of chagrin, you led the Admiral to a spot that was in the ideal lighting for your purposes. He turned to face you, standing regally with his hands clasped behind his back, as still as he ever was. If the rainy day light had let his skin tone come through, the more direct sun simply glittered off of him. 

You started in painting, still sipping along at your caf. Resolving to make the most of the way the harsher light threw the lines of his face and shoulders into relief, you found yourself brushing in the edges and solidifying the pools of paint that were slowly being coalesced into a form. It was so clearly him, his high heavy brow, long aquiline nose, and the relentless scrape of his cheekbones down into a strong chin. There was a little smile of triumph that lingered on your face at this stage of a portrait, when you started to see the mirror of the person before you one piece at a time. 

As you went along, you had no idea what time it was. Thrawn had shown his tendency to keep track of that himself, and so far it had guided you along your sessions most helpfully. It took the shift in light becoming much more obvious for you to start to wonder. Of course, your wrist comm was at home, so you had no way to check furtively for yourself. But then another line captured your attention, and you all but forgot about the passing of the minutes.

It was a chirping ring from Thrawn’s wrist comm that alerted you to anything but the careful sculpting of his face. He lifted said wrist towards his mouth, almost no other part of his body moving at all. 

“This is Grand Admiral Thrawn,” he said into it. 

“Thrawn! Where the blazes are you?” came a voice you knew. Your hand stalled with the brush still in it.

“Ah, Commander Vanto. I am with the Artist Laureate at the central park in the Arts District,” he replied as though there were absolutely nothing irregular about that. 

“Do you realize it’s 1800? Sir?” Vanto did not sound pleased. In fact, he sounded a little panicked. You blinked, totally appalled at the hour. How long had it taken you to _get_ here?

“I’m afraid I did not, in fact.” Thrawn at last looked down at his wrist, eyeing the chrono. “I apologize. It appears our sojourn ran a little over.”

“A _little._ Thrawn, you’re meant to be having dinner at 500 Republica tonight. With just about everyone I can think of from High Command off the top of my head, and several more I’m sure I’ve forgotten.”

“Oh? Well, that is a shame,” he said, and he glanced back up at you. You could’ve sworn there was the tiniest little wry grin on his face, and you glanced between his face and his wrist. “It’s quite impossible for me to arrive in a timely manner at this stage, isn’t it?”

There was an unmistakable sigh. “Alright, I suppose I’ll send them your _sincere_ apologies about being unable to make it.” 

The absolute resignation in Vanto’s voice seemed to confirm what you'd begun to suspect— Thrawn had failed to set his alarm on purpose, fully aware that you would carry on working as long as nothing interrupted you and the sun was still high enough in the sky. You found yourself stifling a giggle, because suddenly the faint little grin on his face made sense. Apparently, the Chiss wasn’t interested in going to a stuffy dinner.

“Thank you very kindly, Commander. In the meantime, I must help return all of the supplies, and of course the Laureate, back to the studio building before I may depart honorably.”

“I assume this means you’re getting a cab, then?” It was actually comical how irritated Vanto was. You put your hand over your mouth to further hush your amusement.

“Certainly, if you are unable to bring a speeder yourself,” Thrawn replied.

For just a moment, Vanto was silent, considering his options. “Alright, I’ll pick you up. Let me know what time to arrive, sir.”

“Splendid, I shall contact you once the Laurate and I have returned to the studio building.”

“Acknowledged, sir,” Vanto groaned. Thrawn tapped his commlink and lowered his arm again, his almost impish hint of a grin still on his face.

“I apologize,” he said very evenly to you. “I think you realize that I’ve borrowed our little outing as a bit of an excuse, this evening.”

“Listen, I don’t blame you for wanting to skip a state dinner, sir,” you chuckled as you started swishing your brush around in turpentine, folding up your palette.

“I hope you do not feel ill-used.”

Now you glanced up at him, realizing that you hadn’t even considered the idea that you were only a means to an end for Thrawn. The man had a great many means you could only imagine were of more use and importance to him than you, after all. But the other thing you hadn’t considered was the possibility that he might have actively _wanted_ to spend time with you instead of attending his little fête, though some instinct told you that wasn’t the only reason he’d opted out, either. If it was a reason at all.

“Should I?” you asked, suddenly nervous and not entirely in a good way.

“You needn’t be coy with me, Laureate. If I preferred to be elsewhere, I would be.”

The evenness of his voice made his words land somewhere between an order and a chide, but despite that your heart picked up and so did the tiny, absurd shred of hope that lingered interminably inside it. In the profoundly subtle language of his unparalleled moderation, such words constituted a _reassurance._

“I believe you, sir,” was all you could manage, looking away from him in favor of gathering your brushes and paint tubes. A smile hovered at one corner of your mouth.

“Allow me to assist you,” Thrawn said, crossing the distance between you. He took the board, letting you reactivate the shield and retract the easel legs before he shouldered it once more. He took the other traveling cases, and you slung your paints across your chest. Bending over to pick up your half empty cup of caf, wholly neglected for who knew how many hours once your focus had kicked in, you took a sip of it. It was cold by then, but that had never stopped you before. 

“Alright, I think that’s everything,” you said, glancing around in case there was a stray brush or tube of paint somewhere in the grass that you’d managed to overlook. 

“If I may, you do appear in better spirits now, Laureate,” he said softly to you. You turned to look up at him, catching the low red gleam of his eyes without meaning to.

“I… I believe I am, sir. Thank you for your suggestion to come here.”

“Of course. It was not in my original plans for today, but I believe it was a fine addition.” 

“I think so, too.” 

The way your gazes lingered as if caught on each other sent a shiver down your spine, and a warmth blossomed in your belly. Then he turned, extending a hand as if to invite you to lead the way. When you did, he fell in beside you as you made your way along the grassy stretch back towards the path that had led you here from the entrance. 

Your steps were slow, full of reticence to be parted from him even as that inevitability loomed before you. It’s not like you had anything illuminating to say, of course. But you could feel the distant ache of wishing you did, and that was the next best thing in such an impossible situation. 

“May I inquire as to the work that kept you up last night?” Thrawn asked as the two of you approached the arch that emptied the park back out onto the high walkway. 

“Um.” Your cheeks flushed a little, having almost forgotten about the pile of newsprint and paper scraps you'd abandoned on one of the work tables inside the studio. You reached up to massage the back of your neck, as though the memory had reminded you that there was a pained muscle there. “Unfortunately, sometimes when that happens all I get out of it is a pile of bantha fodder.” 

“What is it that you were working on?” 

“Poses, mostly. A figure in a pose that… it’s going to sound stupid,” you murmured, looking away.

“I doubt that very much,” he said in his soft coo. That did not have the effect of making you less nervous, only of spurring you to blurt it out anyway.

“Well, I’ve been trying to capture this sense of longing,” you said. “It’s hungry, tired, sad. I wanted something that meant desire and misery at the same time, but not so explicitly. So I ended up sketching figures from holos, looking for poses that… I dunno, made me feel that way. Posing a little myself. I just hate most of the sketches that I ended up with.” 

“Would it trouble you to let me look at them when we return to your studio?”

 _Would it trouble me? Maker,_ I _don’t even want to look at them!_ “I mean, sir, you’re welcome to, but they’re not my best work.”

“I have seen some of your best work, though not all of it I’m sure,” he replied. “That is not what interests me. I have a curiosity about the less refined parts of making art.”

“Well, these certainly lack refinement,” you murmured. “It’s not that they’re terrible sketches, it’s just that they weren’t what I needed. There’s a piece in my head that’s not coming together, I guess. I’ve tried different things, different tactics for coaxing out, but it’s going slowly.” 

His eyes seemed to dance on you for a moment. “Such subtle prey, art is. Yet you seek it with great diligence. What compels you to do it?” 

Maker, if _that_ wasn’t a hell of a question. When was the last time anybody had asked you _why_ you made art? You chewed your lip for a moment, unsure if you’d ever really managed to articulate it.

“It’s sort of hard to say. I mean, I’m lucky to have the time. But I guess it’s just… a need to express something. It’s not easy for me to express myself in other ways.”

“I have always been rather fascinated by the powers of emotion in art. How clearly it expresses the most fundamental things about those who create it honestly,” he said. 

“Maybe that’s my problem,” you mused, looking up at the transient glare of the evening sun on passing speeders as you continued down the walkway. “I haven’t sorted out how to be honest about this feeling I’m trying to express.”

As soon as you said it, you felt like an idiot. The parallel between the piece you’d been twisting yourself in knots trying to create and the emotional rollercoaster of Thrawn’s presence in your otherwise innocuous schedule was painfully obvious in that moment. 

“I have faith in your capacity to find it,” he said simply. You were finally nearing the door of your building, and this street was busier than the other one as you turned right onto it. The fading day flooded the sky with deep orange and pink hues, and you looked up at the scattered clouds turning magenta and purple where the light caught on them and then faded. Maybe it was the color, the cacophony of hues that bled into each other so boldly, that made it impossible for you to not admire a sunset every time you saw one. Or maybe it was its own longing, savoring the last moments of the day before night fell. 

You realized you’d stopped walking, and Thrawn had stalled just beside you. He was looking between you and the sky you gazed at; for all intents and purposes, he found you the more interesting of the two subjects. Snapping back to the present, you picked up your feet again, saying nothing.

C4-10 let you both in without question or comment, though you had the impression that it was side-eyeing you for returning so late with such a distinguished guest. But you were sailing up the lift and then into the studio foyer, and the day was drawing to its close at last. 

“I can handle the cleanup, sir,” you assured Thrawn as you set your paints down on top of a worktable and motioned for him to do the same. 

“Are these the sketches you made last night?” he asked as he set the board gently down, eyes flickering over to the stack at the other end of the table. 

“Yeah,” you murmured, not enthused about his interest but letting him saunter over to pick them up and look at them anyway. 

His silence, the carefulness with which he looked them over, had you jittery with anticipation. What would he say? Would he like them even if you didn’t? You found yourself rubbing your wrist, achy with the prolonged portrait session, and chewing your cheek nervously. 

At last, he spoke. “These are quite beautiful. I sense your struggle to seek what you find in them. This one,” and here he pulled out a paper where you’d hurriedly sketched a figure on its knees, hands fallen limp between its legs as it leaned back and gazed upwards towards the heavens, “seems to have at last grown weary of the chase.”

“Must’ve been the last one I did, then,” you said quietly, flush with pride. _Quite beautiful._

“Perhaps abandon holds the key to what you desire,” he replied. “This longing you describe, would it not come to its apex at the moment just before either resignation or deliverance?” 

You swallowed, your insides suddenly quaking. For a species that was apparently not overly emotional, Thrawn sure did seem to have an idea of how to convey the feeling you’d just identified as your yearning for him. 

“That’s… very, um, true,” you stammered. “I’ll have to explore that more. It just... takes courage to get that close.”

“Indeed, but I think you have all the courage you need, _euhn in'a._ ”

The strange words seemed to ring a bell, though it wasn’t any language you could remember hearing. Hadn’t he called you that once before? You tried to remember when; maybe it was after Vanto had left the studio a few sessions ago? Yes, that was it— when he’d been trying to reassure you about the quality of your work. 

You by no means had the gall to ask what it meant. Not yet, anyway.

“Sometimes, maybe. But thank you, sir,” you said.

“Of course.” Laying the sketch back delicately on the work table, he turned towards you. “Thank you for being my diversion from a less pleasant evening.”

“I’m… I’m honored, Admiral. And I made quite a lot of headway on your portrait, which is good, because I’m starting to think we might require more sessions than you originally booked to get it finished.” 

Thrawn raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Oh? I shall have to look over my availability, then.” He began to walk towards the foyer, and you went with him. 

“There’s no rush,” you said. “Just let me know.”

“I shall endeavor to know by next week.”

“Alright.” You were smiling at him, and you knew it was ardent and sanguine, and you found that you really didn’t care anymore. _Let him read me,_ you thought. This man would lose no sleep over your heartache if he didn’t want to, that much was evident. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

“As always,” he replied, nodding his head. “Good evening, Laureate.”

“Good evening, sir.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the closest thing you'll ever get from me to a coffee shop AU xD they're cute i just don't write them.  
> in other news, Thrawn!!! amirite!!!! *heart eyes emoji*


	8. shadow

Everything about the morning before, and then the start of, Thrawn’s eighth session was normal with a glaze of giddiness that picked up the vividness of the colors of the world, making you feel air-light as you prepped a canvas for your next personal piece. Leaning it against the wall while its white gesso base dried and pinning the forlorn sketch that the Grand Admiral had taken particular note of up next to it, you found yourself perched by your easel early so you could gaze at the impression of his face that was at last taking form.

When he arrived, you smiled and led him into the studio. He was himself, as always, polite and cool and terribly upstart in his white uniform. He perched on his stool, you at your easel. Another expedition out to the park was out of the question, as apparently his schedule was back to normal and he had no state dinners to rather impishly skip out on, but the sweet daze of it made you feel a yearning that you almost enjoyed as you started in on the finer details of the structure of his face. 

You’d been at it for a little while in sunlit quietude before he spoke.

“I see you’re preparing for a new piece,” Thrawn said.

“Yes, I decided to go ahead and prepare because I think I finally know what I want to do,” you replied easily.

His eyes, which had been drifting over to the sketch and canvas, drifted back to you. “And you plan to incorporate that sketch into the painting?”

“Yes sir, I think so.” 

“I thought you intended on preparing this piece on flimsi?”

You winced ever so slightly at the word. “Not to sound pretentious, sir, but what I work on is called paper. They’re different.”

“Oh?” He seemed curious, the faint arch of his brow encouraging you to continue.

“Flimsi is a processed soft plastic,” you explained. “Paper is tree pulp. You can’t paint with watercolor on flimsi, it requires a certain chemical compound in most inks to be permeable enough to accept them.” 

“Ah, I see. I have, however, identified more than one piece that was painted on what was recorded to be flimsi.” 

“That was with paint that uses those compounds. I much prefer the traditional way. The way flimsi absorbs the ink just… isn’t the same.” You shrugged, glancing up at him. “I guess I’m just a sucker for that. I’m grateful my job means I can afford the paper and true watercolor. Much as I’d love to be an independent artist, I don’t think I’d make nearly enough to use my ideal materials.” 

You were starting to doubt yourself less and less when you thought you saw a gleam come into the Admiral’s red eyes. It was taking a while, but more and more his subtle expressions were starting to become clear. You wondered faintly if Vanto, or someone else who knew him well, could read them even better.

“And the canvas? Is that ideal as well?” 

“I don’t always love canvas,” you admitted. “But for this piece I wanted the texture. I may do it in oils.”

He hummed, all muted curiosity. “It would appear that this piece required the special depth of the oils.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Just as you were plucking your brush from the board to lower it into the tub of turpentine, your wrist twinged and your whole hand seemed to go soft. The brush clattered to the floor. “Kriff,” you groaned as quietly as you could manage. Leaning down, you retrieved it and stuck it in the turp a little more aggressively than you needed to with your off-hand.

“Is everything alright, Laureate?” Thrawn asked.

“It’s just my wrist,” you sighed. “I’m developing carpal tunnel syndrome, I’m pretty sure.” This was not something you enjoyed being reminded of, because until lately the achy stiffness in your hand and forearm that sometimes made your thumb and first two fingers feel swollen or numb had been infrequent. But enough time at the easel had begun to wear on you. 

“Carpal tunnel syndrome?” 

“It’s a pinched nerve in my wrist. It comes from repetitive small motions with my hands, like painting or drawing.” 

“Can it be treated?” Now, he almost— _almost—_ seemed concerned. 

“Really it can only be minimized. By not doing the motions, which I can’t really get away with, and by wearing a brace at night. There’s a surgical procedure for it, but I don’t really like the idea of surgery.” _I better start doing stretches and exercises like my teachers always talked about,_ you thought. _Ugh._

“A minor surgery to preserve your career seems more than reasonable,” Thrawn pointed out.

“It’s a cybernetic,” you explained, shaking your head. “More than one artist has said they felt their marks weren’t the same after they replaced their wrists. I’d rather avoid that if I can.”

“I see.” He was quiet, passionless but pensive. 

“I’ll just keep taking care of it, it’ll be alright.” You were just reaching for your brush again, to swirl it around in the turp and get to work on another part of the painting, when Thrawn’s wrist comm started to beep in a way you’d never heard before. Looking up at him, you saw him holding it up and peering at it.

“Apologies, Laureate,” he said, but you waved your hand in dismissal. The alert sounded urgent, and far be it from you to intrude on his military affairs. “This is Thrawn.”

“Thrawn, it’s Eli. Sir, we have a priority alert on the _Chimaera._ We need you to return immediately.” The high scrape of something terribly akin to panic that was audible beneath Vanto’s otherwise professional tone set your heart to beating faster for much less pleasant reasons than usual. And he’d said his first name, which seemed highly irregular.

“Acknowledged, Commander. I shall depart to rejoin the ship now.” Thrawn’s face had turned to stone. If he’d ever seemed unreadable before, this was another tier of opacity. He silenced the commlink and was already on his feet. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, jumping up to trail him. But he wasn’t walking at a leisurely pace, of course, as he sailed towards the foyer. 

“I must go at once. I will contact you as soon as this matter is resolved,” he said, clipped and utterly bent on something that wasn’t you. It was frightening, you realized. You were _frightened_ for him, and of something that could cause such a response in him. Maybe it was normal, but you had never borne witness to it before.

“Sir—” But he was already passing through the exit door, already gone. You came to a sudden halt in your foyer, breath shallow and rapid. 

_He’s a Grand Admiral,_ you reminded yourself for maybe the dozenth time. _This is his job._ But at that moment, it didn’t put you at ease at all to remember that. After a moment to catch your breath, you turned back into the studio to clean up with your chest becoming a massive knot.

\- - - - - 

Three days passed like three minute eternities. Your worries had all but dried up your urge to create, and you wheedled away ponderous hours in the glass casket of the studio. It was preposterous, really, because this sort of thing happened to Thrawn and every other officer in the Imperial Navy all of the time. Being unaware before was the only thing that saved you the concern you felt now. But something about seeing Thrawn’s face, the pitch of Vanto’s voice on the comm, left you unable to bully away your fretting. 

You found yourself wondering if it was within reasonable limits for the Artist Laureate of the Empire to leave a message for a Grand Admiral of the Fleet just asking if his whole emergency situation had panned out alright and could you expect him the week following or would his engagement keep him off-planet for some time. Of course, by the way every other officer you’d ever painted had acted, that would be an absurd thing to do. Equally absurd was for you to check your wrist comm twice as frequently as usual, as though a message might appear from Thrawn or Vanto about whatever had happened and when could you reschedule the session for, again?

Yet you did just that, and skimmed the holonet for news about the _Chimaera_ as well. No news was likely good news, as the untimely death of a Grand Admiral or just the loss of his ship was liable to color the headlines more boldly than a victory. The Empire liked to pretend that it didn’t _need_ victories over rebels, after all. 

By the fourth night following your interrupted session, you were curled up in bed with your datapad, reading something wholly unrelated to get your mind off of things. Well, the history of Zabrak art wasn’t _wholly_ unrelated, but it wasn’t connected enough for you to feel agitated by reading it again. You hadn’t picked it up since school, after all. And you couldn’t help but wonder what the ruins Thrawn had found looked like, how they’d fit into this story that the Zabrak art already catalogued seemed to weave. 

When your wrist comm suddenly started beeping on your bedside table, you had been so close to nodding off that it almost jolted you right out of the bed. Scrambling over to pick it up, you pressed the button that would answer without even looking at the caller information. Half of the time, if it was work related, it was classified, anyway.

“Hello?” you asked, voice a little unsteady from your sleepiness. 

“Ah, Artist Laureate, so glad to get ahold of you. I apologize for the hour, I know on Coruscant it’s late,” said a voice that injected bewildered relief directly into your heart.

“Grand Admiral?” you asked. “Hello! No, no, it’s fine, it’s not too late. Is everything alright?” 

“Oh yes, everything is running quite smoothly here,” Thrawn replied, and without his face to accompany it his voice was silken indifference. “I’ve called to offer you a proposal, which you may accept or reject as you desire.”

A _what?_

“What sort of proposal?” you asked, blinking at the wall and furrowing your brow. You hung on the precipice of excited and terrified.

“I appear to be needed for a mission that would cause me to be unable to return to Coruscant for some time, a patrol of the Outer Rim.”

“How long?”

“Between three weeks and a standard month, most likely.”

“Oh, dear.” Your heart, so freshly enthused, sank just as quickly.

“I have considered several options, and it seems that the best will be for you to agree to stay on board the _Chimaera_ for the duration of that time, which should give you ample opportunity to finish your work,” he said. 

Your eyes flew wide open, and you stared down at the commlink in disbelief. 

“ _Me?_ Stay on your ship? Is there room for that?”

To your utter surprise, Thrawn _chuckled._ “There is ample space on board a Star Destroyer. You may have to seek out an ideal place to do the work, as the lighting will not be the same I’m afraid, but I am more than willing to assist you.”

“And space to store my materials? I’ll need quite a lot more than we took to the park, if I stay for that long.”

“Your every need would be accommodated.”

You took in a breath. There had to be half a dozen things, minimum, that you needed to go over right now in order to make sure this was a feasible idea. Not the least of which was the war between intense desire and guttural anxiety about living aboard a starship that had already begun to play out in your guts. 

“I-I’ll have to run this by my department head—”

“I have taken the liberty of clearing such an arrangement through all the appropriate channels,” he replied. “I would not wish to make such an offer to you only to have it stifled by the convolutions of bureaucracy.”

 _Well, that seems awfully in-character,_ you thought. “Is there anything in particular I should bring? I haven’t traveled in a long time, I’m not sure—”

“Bring whatever you desire, as much or as little of it as you need. I will send someone to transport you and your luggage to the Naval Intelligence Headquarters, where there will be a shuttle waiting to carry you to the _Chimaera._ ”

“Um, alright. When would that be?”

“I believe it would be at 0900 tomorrow morning, Coruscant time.”

You nearly dropped the commlink. 

“That soon? Maker, sir, how could I even begin to pack everything that quickly?” you balked, rubbing your head. 

“My men will assist you. They will arrive by 0800.”

“Admiral, I—”

“Please do not be troubled, Laureate. You will be well taken care of,” he cut you off. “Anything you leave behind, we can procure for you here, as long as it isn’t only found on Coruscant. But I will make certain that whatever you desire will be yours, while you are a guest on my ship.” 

Staring down into the faint white light on the active commlink, you almost felt your mild panic start to settle as though a heavy blanket had been draped over it. You were more worried about the art supplies than anything else; those were not always easy to find offworld. But you had backstock aplenty, courtesy of the Empire, and if he was sending help…

You hung there in the net of deliberation, trying to filter through anything you could think of for complications or problems. But nothing came to mind.

“You are always welcome to decline, of course,” came his voice after a few moments of silence that must have stretched longer than you realized. Taking a deep breath, you slid a silent prayer out into the galaxy that you would not come to regret your choice.

“Alright, sir. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” There was no change of inflection, no uptick in his tone at all. The entire conversation had been level, cool, collected. Holding the comm near your face, you leaned over to rest your elbow on your knee and sag into acceptance. It was done, now, and you wouldn’t turn back. 

“So I’ll expect your men at 0800 Coruscanti tomorrow?” you asked.

“And I shall receive you on the _Chimaera_ by 1000 at the latest,” he confirmed. 

“I’ve… I’ve never been to space before,” you found yourself admitting in a small voice. A whole life on this planet, which had more on it than any one being could ever need, now to be catapulted into Maker knew what reaches of the galaxy. It was all you’d ever wanted, and it was terrifying.

When Thrawn spoke again, you could almost hear one of those little smiles on his handsome blue face. “Never?”

“No.”

“I think you’ll find it quite inspiring.”


	9. background

Just the hangar bay of the _Chimaera_ left you breathless. You climbed out of the shuttle into the vast chamber, full of the echo of other small craft arriving and departing, unloading and reloading. Behind you came two men who were ferrying a repulsorlift platform full of crates of your supplies, and before you was a milieu of officers and stormtroopers hurrying about their business. You weren’t as disoriented as you’d expected to be, having gotten accustomed to the churn of both foot and air traffic on Coruscant long ago, but everything was unfamiliar and you cast about for a moment looking for an anchor or a sign of what to do. 

In your spin, you turned and found yourself staring out of the shielded opening of the hangar bay. The shuttle had been windowless but for the cockpit, perhaps for the better since you had no idea if you’d get spacesick or not, but it meant that you’d been unable to witness the dark beyond the atmosphere or the outside of the Star Destroyer as you approached. 

And there, beyond what seemed like nothing more than a flimsy blue haze, was _space._ The blackness of it was total, the clusters of stars like miniscule holes punched in the void. Your eyes grew wide, staring. 

“Ah, there you are, Laureate!” came a familiar voice. It was Vanto, who was approaching from behind. You glanced back at him with a distracted smile. 

“Hello, Commander,” you said, unable to keep yourself from looking back out of the bay entrance.

“You alright?” he asked, sidling up beside you. 

“I…” 

“Thrawn did tell me you’d never been offworld before.” It seemed as though he was just recalling this. “You’re not gonna panic on me, are you?”

“No,” you said softly. “It’s just… you can’t even see the stars, on Coruscant.”

“Oh.” Now he sounded surprised, looking out with you. “I… never thought about that. All the light pollution.” 

“Mhm.” Pulling your eyes away from the sight, which filled you with curiosity and wonder, you turned to him. “Sorry, sir.”

“That’s alright,” he said with an easygoing smile. Was it just you, or did his Wild Space accent seem a little stronger out here on the ship? “I’m here to escort you to your chambers until the Admiral can join us.” 

“Thank you.”

“Of course! Right along this way.” 

He guided you through what immediately felt like an overwhelming maze of hallways to a passage that was lined at distant intervals with doors. Approaching one, he slid a cylindrical key into its lock. The door beeped, satisfied, and slid open.

“Here you are,” he said, holding out his hand in invitation.

So you entered, and found yourself in a space that was much nicer than you’d expected. There was a little sitting area with a couch, a desk, and beyond it a bed that was larger than your bed at home and a ‘fresher on the other side of it. Everything was gray in tone, which was unfortunate, but surely that would soon be remedied by the clutter of your materials. 

“Where would you like these?” came a modulated voice of one of the men behind you, gesturing to the crates they’d brought in. He was a stormtrooper, and a private by the look of his unadorned armor.

“Oh, just there is fine,” you replied, a little dazed. “This is... _spacious._ ”

“Nothing but the best for the esteemed Artist Laureate of the Empire,” came a velvet coo. You spun to see Thrawn at last arriving, the men snapping to attention as he entered the room. “At ease, troopers.”

“Sir, I hope I’m not putting you out—”

“Nonsense. This is the guest suite,” he said, cutting you off as he approached with his hands behind his back. “Being that we patrol the edges of the Empire, we rarely host diplomats.” 

“Thank you, sir,” you murmured, smiling. 

“How was your trip? Did everything go smoothly?”

“Yes, sir, and your men were very helpful this morning. We even had time to stop for caf.” 

“Ah, yes,” he said, and the little smile you liked to see crooked at the corner of his mouth. “Is there anything we might do to see you settled in?”

“Er, well, I’ll be honest, this ship is… huge,” you said sheepishly. “Maybe a map would help me get around.” 

“We thought you might say that,” said Vanto, holding out a little datachip towards you. “Schematics of the whole ship, plus meal schedules and a list of all the rec activities available and everything you should be able to order from the commissary.”

“Wow,” you murmured, taking it from him with a breath of gratitude. “I appreciate that very much, Commander.”

“I’ll give you the grand tour later,” Vanto replied with a chuckle.

“I would offer to give it myself,” Thrawn interjected, “But my duties seem to multiply, today.”

“I guess one doesn’t take much in the way of days off, on a ship,” you said.

“There are more busy times and less busy times, certainly. I regret that I cannot welcome you more personally, Laureate, but I believe that there will be time in the next day or two to assist you in finding the best location for your work.” 

“That’s quite alright, sir. It’ll take me that long to settle in, anyway.” You knew the heat in your cheeks was a little silly, but a personal welcome from Thrawn seemed like a dream you’d never expected to come true anyway. Just the fact that he was apologizing for not giving it was enough to make you feel singled out in a way you hardly minded.

“Very good.” He offered you a nod, and another of his ghostly smiles. “Then I must return to the bridge. You may contact me directly on commlink if any emergency arises.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

As he filed out with the troopers behind him, Vanto returned his attention to you.

“If any of the officers or troopers gets snarky with you, let me know,” he said. You raised an eyebrow, caught a little off-guard. _Should I have expected that?_ “Sometimes, Navy folks consider having a civilian on board bad luck. It’s a dumb old superstition, but it persists.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” you murmured, glancing down at your clothes. You’d donned pretty simple clothing to make the trip comfortable, not quite your paint-splattered button-downs but there were definitely flecks of color all over the bottoms of your sleeves. “But I’ll be doing everything in my power to stay out of their way. I wonder if they still think artists are all crazy, too.” 

“Maybe, but I think those ones would just avoid you, which might be better than the alternative,” Vanto chuckled. “I am available, by the way, for that tour I mentioned. This afternoon, in fact, at 1400. It might help you get acclimated.”

“I _really_ appreciate that.” You smiled at him. Even if he and Thrawn were involved somehow, he did seem like a kind person, at least. You wondered if you’d ever get up the courage to just _ask_ him about their relationship. That seemed unlikely, of course, but Maker knew you’d be even less likely to muster the wherewithal to ask Thrawn. 

“I’ll come back here and fetch you then,” he said. You smiled, and he threw you a little salute as he marched out the door. 

Your eyes wandered the room, and you went over to touch the bed. It was softer than you’d expected, the blanket and comforter far from flashy but still apparently crafted from high-grade materials. The ‘fresher was nice, too, white and clean with a mirror and both sonic and regular shower. The only thing that was missing was a window, you thought. You might have to find one of those to look out of now that, for the first time in your life, you could see the galaxy. 

\- - - - -

When Vanto came to gather you, you’d decided to put on something just a little nicer, and half your art supplies were already scattered around your quarters trying to find a home in the strange new space. But the Commander said nothing about the disarray, only led you out of the officer’s suites and down towards the lower levels. 

He kept everything quite simple, and relegated to the areas you might actually use. Starting with recreational spaces, the officer’s mess, and the commissary window— though, he assured you, your status was such that someone would deliver your orders to your room directly if you so desired. He showed you the hangars, training rooms, and other more open spaces that might end up becoming your future studio. Then, you both boarded a lift to head up to the command tower. 

“Like her so far?” he asked cheerfully as you rode.

“The ship? It’s impressive,” you replied. “I had no idea they were so enormous. Though I guess it makes sense, since you all basically live out here.” 

“Yes, we’re not living in luxury, but we have everything we need. Comfortable, until you’re in a space battle, I suppose.” 

The words _space battle_ left their echo in your head for a moment, and you swallowed your nerves. “Those happen often?”

“Once in a while. Your quarters are in a safe zone, in the event one happens while you’re here, and if the ship is compromised there’s an evacuation plan. Don’t worry too much.”

“I’ll try,” you muttered, already trying to shoo the anxiety from your brain. “So you engage on the ground more often, then?”

“Lately, yes. We’ve been overseeing Imperial operations in the Outer Rim, and everything from mining to medicine is always being hounded by rebels or pirates,” he said, shaking his head. “And the occasional worker’s insurrection, but those are rare these days.”

“Oh? Interesting.” It wasn’t _that_ interesting, if you were honest, but you had no intention of offering your critical views of the Empire to anyone on board this ship. Maybe anyone in the galaxy, at this point.

“We’ll try to keep it less interesting while you’re here,” Vanto assured you. “Of course, there are occasionally surprises. But Thrawn didn’t want to bring you out into a circumstance that might traumatize or otherwise upset you.”

“Well, bringing me out to space was an interesting choice, then. Though, I always wanted to go,” you mused. “Just isn’t in my budget.” 

“Sounds like he gave you an opportunity, in that case.”

“Yeah. He did.” You smiled faintly, and Vanto side-eyed you for a moment. But then the lift door was opening, and you both filed out into a hallway that, while branching off once or twice beforehand, ended on a pair of ponderous gray doors.

When they slid apart, you realized that you were on the bridge. Vanto moved close to you, and spoke quietly. 

“This is the command deck,” he said. “I thought you might like to see it, since the viewport up here is the best on board, of course.” 

You were already staring at exactly what the Commander was referring to. Outside the transparisteel wall ahead, past officers at their consoles at the end of the glossy black platform that ran the length of the room, the entire glittering sphere of Coruscant hung in the void. The ship was close enough that the whole sphere of it didn’t fit inside the viewport. You blinked as Vanto led you slowly up towards the fore of the deck, eyes trying to take in every single trail of lights that sprawled across its surface like eerily perfect fault lines careening into each other to form an impossible labyrinth of circles and arcs. It was breathtaking. 

Of course, there in front of you as well was Grand Admiral Thrawn presiding with his everpresent majestic calm over his bridge. He heard your footsteps, and turned to cast a red eye back at you. 

“Afternoon, sir,” Vanto greeted him with a tone that was almost too casually pleasant. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of our guest’s company, Commander?” he asked, and you could hear the faint suggestion of surprise— and maybe displeasure— in his voice. 

“Just giving the tour of the ship, Admiral,” said Vanto. “Thought it might be a singular experience for someone who’s never been offworld to see their home from above.” 

Thrawn’s slightest of bristles seemed to ebb as he turned his eyes to you. You hadn’t stopped looking at the ecuminopolis outside, even as you wondered if maybe Vanto had taken a liberty he shouldn’t have, because it was difficult to rip your gaze from such ethereal beauty.

“Is it so, Laureate?” asked Thrawn in a soft voice.

“It’s… I’ve never seen anything like it,” you breathed. “All the holos I’ve ever seen couldn’t do it justice. It’s incredible.”

The Admiral was staring at you the way he always did, watching you admire the planet with a great deal more captivation than you had any sunset. “A pity I cannot grant you access to the command deck regularly. But there is another room with a view that you might be able to visit more often.”

“Really? Which room?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“In time,” he said. You felt a shiver run down your spine. _What the kriff does_ that _mean?_

“I hope we didn’t trouble you, sir,” said Vanto.

“Quite alright, Commander,” Thrawn replied, and whatever hint of dissatisfaction had once faintly tinted his voice was gone. You expected him to shoo you both away, after that, but he didn’t. He simply looked silently out the viewport with you, throwing a downward glance your way. 

“Well, I guess we’ll be on our way, then,” Vanto said eventually, cutting through the quiet of your mind. “If you’ll come with me, Laureate.”

“Yeah, alright,” you murmured, unwilling to look away. But you managed to turn, stopping to face Thrawn briefly as you did. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Of course,” he said with a nod, eyes trained on you once more. “Enjoy the rest of the _Chimaera_.”

“I’m sure I will,” you replied, smiling, possibly glowing. And you found yourself trailing behind Vanto, pausing to look back enough that he hurried you more than once. The image of the Chiss looking back at you, and beyond him the endless lights and patterns, the latent heartbeat of Coruscant, was one you wanted to burn into your mind forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have a really cute Spaceships 101 to start of this adventure with ^_^  
> also, Eli is precious and good and kind of a troll lol


	10. foreground

For all that your first couple of days on Thrawn’s ship were full of fascination and wonderment, the third day seemed to be doing its damndest to ruin your mood.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” you groaned, rubbing your eyelids. “Is there a lower setting?”

Commander Vanto was standing at the control panel for the little training room you were standing in, prodding the screen dutifully. “Doesn’t look like it,” he said.

“Kriff,” you growled. “It’s _so_ bright. It’s like there’s two kriffing suns.”

In fact, it was worse than daylight in the training room. The whole ceiling seemed to be made of light— brilliant blue light glaring from all directions to barely leave a shadow on anything, drowning the room in its massive blaze. You frowned at the board in front of you, Thrawn’s half-finished portrait back inside its traveling case. But while the image was clear, you knew that your subject would be over-illuminated under these conditions. And that was a disaster waiting to happen.

“Wait, hang on,” Vanto said suddenly, and you dared to hope for a single, fleeting moment that there might be a different setting that would work better. 

When the light dimmed, it dimmed so dramatically that you nearly couldn’t make out the painting at all. 

“What is this setting even _for?_ ” you balked. “Now I can’t see anything!”

“It’s for training for low light situations, nightvision settings and the like,” Vanto said. “I hoped it might work better, or at least have more than one option.”

“It’s almost worse.” 

“Sorry, Laureate.”

You sighed as the lights came back up. “It’s not your fault, Commander. You shouldn't even have to be down here dealing with me anyway.”

“Actually, I’m off-duty,” he replied. “Except for emergencies.”

“Still. This whole escapade has really not been working out.” It was the fourth room on the ship you’d tried, but every place seemed to have either brilliant or minimal lighting and there was no in-between, no way to control the brilliance or dim. Aside from that, there was no place _private_ enough. Setting up shop in the mess or the hangar bay or something was out of the question. You let out a sludgy groan, watching your career flash before your eyes. Clapping your hands over your face, you leaned backwards for a moment as if to appeal to the heavens. “Is there no place with, say, a daylight simulator? Some kind of holo-projection room?”

“Not that I can think of, and I know this ship pretty well,” Vanto replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The man was really trying. “I didn’t realize our lighting options were so limited.”

“Yeah, well, until you spend all day every day thinking about lighting, I don’t imagine you’d notice,” you said, feeling your surliness distilling more and more. “I should’ve thought about this, brought some, I dunno, lamps or something. I came here to paint this kriffing portrait, but if I have to start all over—”

“Good afternoon, Commander, Laureate,” came a familiar voice, and you turned to see the Grand Admiral himself entering the training room. For the first time in recorded history, this actually aggravated you more than it pleased you. “How is your search proceeding?”

“Terribly, sir,” you replied before Vanto could smooth things over. “There is _no_ lighting control on this ship!”

“How do you mean?” Thrawn asked, cool and level even as your voice started to crinkle and sharpen with vexation. 

“This room, the others we tried, they all have two settings: too bright, or lights off. Except this one, it has a third, which is that the lights might as well be off. I can’t work like that, sir.”

“Well, I am certain that—”

“You don’t understand, I can’t kriff this up,” you continued, surprised at the sheer level of anxiety that was suddenly provoked enough to drive your ranting forward. But rather than withdrawing, Thrawn only approached closer. “This is my _job,_ I can’t just make do with the lights on overdrive! It’ll throw off your whole face!” You were gesticulating towards the portrait, mapping the planes of his face through the air in ways only you would really understand. “I appreciate you bringing me out here, I really do, but if I can’t figure out a better way to light you, it’s going to ruin the whole thing!” Now your eyes were on his face as he walked right up to you without urgency or fluster. “I’ve worked too hard to begin again, and you don’t have time to sit around for that long every day to make sure it’s done anyway, and—”

Suddenly you felt a warmth and pressure against your mouth; Thrawn was holding his finger up to your lips, looking down at you with the same probing gaze as ever. You felt yourself bristle and then sag, as though all the fight and the latent despair that lurked beneath it was released from you at his touch. Looking up at him, you fell silent, somewhere between placated and frozen, struck with just how unexpected this gentle rebuff was. 

Then, he pulled his finger away and folded it back into his closed hand. His eyes were still on you, their glow dulled by the harshness of the lights.

“Sorry,” you murmured, face getting hot. You’d been having a tantrum, you realized. Spurred by fear for your job, of course, but a tantrum nonetheless. It had been a long time since such a panic had gotten the better of you.

“I am certain we can find a solution for you,” he replied, voice quiet and smooth. “You require modulated lighting, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will check the ship’s schematics and see what rooms may have their controls accessed.” 

“Th-thank you, sir.” _That was entirely too patient to be a real response from a living, breathing Imperial officer._

He regarded you, head canting ever so slightly to his left. “You seem tense, Laureate. Is there anything that I might do to help?” 

That caused your heart to trip on its merry way to your throat. “Um, sir, I’m… I just need to cool off.”

“Can I get you a beverage, something to eat perhaps? Humans have a tendency to neglect their basic needs in moments of stress.” 

You were still looking up at him, caught in the gravity of his stare. He was being amazingly tolerant of your crankiness. “No, I’m fine,” you grumbled, at last looking at the ground and crossing your arms. A cocktail of embarrassment with a whisper of petulance had rendered you all but pouting at that moment.

“You may find looking at some of the classical pieces, the ones which inform the method of your portraiture, and noting their lighting to be very informative,” he suggested. “Perhaps you and I may study them, to seek what is most compatible with the ship’s capabilities.” 

Now you paused, looking back up at him. His undeserved patience was one thing, but personal attentiveness to your work difficulties was a response that left your knees a little weak. “I… you don’t have to—”

“It is no trouble,” he hushed you again without touching you this time. “I have a great many records of art in my possession, and there are more on the holonet besides. Come, and we shall look them over together.” He gestured at the board nearby, and you turned to retract its case’s legs and turn on its shield. Slipping the carrying strap over your head, you turned back towards the Admiral.

“You want me to run that schematic, sir?” asked Vanto from the wall’s control panel. He was lounging a little against the wall, casually observing your entire interaction, of course. He seemed utterly unfazed.

“That’s quite alright, Commander. Please, enjoy your off-duty hours,” Thrawn replied, turning to head towards the exit with you behind him feeling a little like an akk-dog with its tail between its legs.

“Thank you, Commander Vanto,” you said to him, voice quiet. “Sorry I was in bad form.”

“It happens to the best of us,” he replied with a wry little grin.

You slunk along beside the Admiral, looking mostly at your feet. But he led you on silently. Led you all the way up to the heights of the command deck, only you skirted that grand and imposing room in favor of a hallway that flanked it. 

When you arrived at the doors, Thrawn used his security key to open them, and you realized that you were about to walk into his office.

“You can make yourself comfortable,” he said, walking in ahead of you as you stalled at the threshold. It wasn’t as spacious as you’d expected, but perhaps you were accustomed to a certain amount of Coruscant’s brand of grandiosity which wouldn’t sustain out here in space. There was a window, though, with a void full of stars beyond it.

Thrawn was walking over to his desk, thumbing through a box of data chips that was already laid out there, with some of the chips already on the desk in piles. That made sense, if the study of art and culture was a part of his tactical ingenuity as much as everyone said it was. You slid the painting off your shoulder, leaning it gingerly against the wall before you cast around the room for a chair. 

Strangely, you thought, the only chair in the room was his desk chair. But, there were a few art pieces on the walls— it surprised you, even though maybe it shouldn’t have. So you stood, lingering near the desk but looking at a painting you didn’t recognize. It was sheet metal, probably salvaged, covered in brilliant designs in nearly neon pigments. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, plucking the chip he’d evidently been looking for out of the box. He must have spotted you staring. “Unique, isn’t it? Remind me to tell you about that piece at a later time,” he said gently, and you turned away from your curiosity.

“I will, sir.” For once, you probably would, since you’d never seen a piece like that one before. You watched him slip the data chip into the holoprojector on his desk, leaning against it with one hand on the button and the other tucked into his pocket. 

Then the lights seemed to compensate for the activation of the projector, and a piece you knew very well leapt up in contrast to the one you’d just been examining. 

“Oh, a classic,” you murmured, moving closer to the desk.

“I assumed you would recognize the early modernists of ancient Coruscant,” Thrawn said. “It occurred to me, though, that the light in the studio was a great deal brighter than that of these paintings. It seemed to be brighter than the light on the other portraits in the Palace, too.”

“Yes, I tend to lay down the structure of the painting and the details of the face with more light,” you said, scanning the rich shadows of the holo. “But the windows can be covered, either along the wall or the ceiling or both, and I tend to use that for the final layers of chiaroscuro.”

“Ah, so you have a clear foundation from which to build your final lighting choices, correct?”

You nodded. “Exactly. Do you have one of Kayrdist’s gothics on this chip, by chance?” 

“I believe I do.” He pressed the button, scrolling through a few options until he selected a painting that was a portrait with an unusually large amount of empty space around it, the subject quite small and nestled a little below and just to the right of the center of the frame.

“Yes, exactly this one!” you said, pointing to it with excitement. You drew up closer to him so you could indicate what you were thinking, draw shapes through the air along the image. “You see the way the light comes from somewhere along the upper left? There’s all this space, all this wall that’s blank and dark, but we don’t see the source of the light. He did that all the time in his work. Which leads me to believe that Kayrdist just didn’t want to paint the lamp he probably had there, frankly, but also it makes the whole thing look mysterious. Like the light comes from something unknown, since it would make more sense if the lamp was actually there.” 

You turned away from the painting to look at Thrawn, and realized that in the slightly dimmed light of the room the ethereal red haze of his eyes was intensified. You shouldn’t have been surprised, maybe, that he wasn’t looking at the painting. 

It was that moment that you realized that maybe, just _maybe,_ the flutters of your heart in his presence weren’t based solely on your own fanciful attractions to the tall, commanding Admiral. That maybe he was drawn to you somehow, though you could only imagine that he found the nature of the artist to be perplexing or novel, as he’d said one of the very first times you met. Why else would he study you so intently, and agitate the primitive part of your brain that apparently his species lacked? Not that you were unattractive, per say, but who knew what Chiss found appealing, or if humans were even on the list? Then again, if the errant suspicions you had about him and Vanto turned out to be more than a hunch, that might bode well for you assuming the two weren’t _exclusive—_

“And that is what you seek to emulate, or what otherwise informs your lighting choices in these portraits?” he asked, and his voice was soft enough to bleed from his usual subdued pitch into almost a purr, and _that_ went straight to your guts regardless of the lack of emotion in it.

“Yes,” you replied, volume matching his instinctively. “I thought it was striking from the first time I saw them, and I’ve been a little… enthralled, ever since.” It was one of those moments where your discussion was devolving rapidly into a thinly veiled metaphor, of course. For you, anyway.

“I understand your fascination,” he said. “Do you know the sculptures of Botharred?”

“The cosmology series? Of the ancient Coruscanti myths?” 

“Yes, precisely.” 

Nodding, memories flashed through your mind’s eye. “I’ve seen three of them in person, actually.”

“Was this one of them?” His glance flitted behind you, and you turned to look upon a sculpture that still, every time you saw it, arrested your senses. 

“ _Bliss of Souls,_ ” you murmured, the title of the piece. It depicted several human forms, all connected as they touched each other, their bodies eddying up towards the sky. The amazing weight of the stone, the apparent fleshiness of solid rock, was still baffling to the onlooker so many thousands of years later. The figure at the top flung their head back, eyes shut and mouth agape, the literal and metaphorical peak of the bliss the name referred to. 

“This sculpture was considered lewd at the time of its creation, was it not? Despite the lack of explicit sexual acts occurring between the subjects.”

“It was. Botharred maintained that the bliss was supposed to be something religious in nature, but they all said that.”

“You sound doubtful,” Thrawn noted.

“It might have been religious for him, but it most certainly was erotic, too,” you said. 

“So you believe his intent was to create an aroused response in the viewer? As per the paradigm of erotic art?”

You paced your breathing. If this subject had flustered you the first time it came up with Thrawn, this time it threatened to break you. But your voice remained steady as you found yourself explaining your interpretation of the work, as though your time at school had possessed you just in time to make you not look like a complete fool. “His use of this imagery was intentional, meant to convey bliss in a way that was relatable, if repressed at the time, to most people. Whether or not he meant to sneak in erotica under the illusion of piety, or even if he found the erotic to be sacred rather than impure like his peers seemed to, we don’t know. But why use such an image, if it wasn’t meant to strike the viewer that way? He could have chosen anything else.”

“And yet he chose this.” Thrawn was eyeing the sculpture for once, and you wished you could interpret the minute movements of his eyes as they danced around the image. “I had wondered about this, and though I have read much of the history of this piece and the controversy surrounding it, I was curious to get a human’s perspective. It is rare that an image speaks so plainly, yet is so wrapped in metaphor at the same time. But often I marvel at the differences between species when it comes to what is evocative in their art versus what the same image may elicit in another species. The lighting you are so partial to, for example, as it caught my attention.”

“Do the Chiss make much in the way of erotic art?” you asked, acutely aware of how close you were to him. 

“We do, but it is not so metaphorical. Over my time immersed in the other cultures of the galaxy, I have come to find it rather interesting how our erotica is wrapped up in the intellect even when it seeks to be more blatant. In great contrast with such spiritual images as this, of course,” he said, and his eyes fell back on you. You felt yourself hanging like a quavering marionette from his gaze. “It helps that the photographer used lighting so purposefully as well.”

“Yeah.” You didn’t look back at the holo, though. It was starting to sink in how much you hadn’t been able to study the contours of his face for the last few days, with the commotion of being moved on board the ship. “I wish I could see the art of your people. I understand that I probably never will, but it’s my own loss, I think.” 

“I am sorry, _euhn in'a._ But I cannot foresee a path that will allow that, either.” 

“How would a Chiss react to the _Bliss of Souls?_ ” you found yourself asking, furtive and hopeful.

“I imagine many might dismiss it as pure erotica, though perhaps abstract in nature, if they did not know of its history,” he replied. “There is no cultural clue a Chiss would recognize representing its religious nature. But, if they learned, that might alter things. Though, I’m afraid it would still be dismissed as a childlike notion of both the divine and the erotic, but that reflects rather more on us than on the sculpture itself.” 

“So, _you_ don’t think it’s juvenile?”

“I might have, once. But the galaxy is much bigger, now, and so I see the intentional ambiguity on the part of Botharred. It may be foreign to me, this idea of the gods, but that does not indicate that I should not respect it.”

“So, you don’t think it’s erotic?” you asked, brow knitting in confusion.

“Oh, I do. Perhaps moreso after learning its purpose, and the depth of what it expresses in humans.” Thrawn was almost smiling, which was not helping your heart rate but _was_ having a profound effect on your willingness to drift a little closer to him.

“What it expresses,” you repeated in a murmur. “I’m sorry, I’m asking a lot of questions.”

“That is because you are intelligent, which is nothing to be apologetic about.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

“I did not realize it amounted to a compliment, either. I simply stated a fact.”

Your grin was wry, at best. “I find it hard to believe that you haven’t noticed how art and intellect get separated by humans pretty frequently. Art is either pure representation, or pure emotion, at least on Coruscant. Neither is given the distinguished rank of being intelligent.” 

“A curiosity in and of itself, since there is an intelligence within art found almost nowhere else,” he mused. “Though other cultures do not bifurcate it so. I have learned, in my time away from Csilla, that emotions are not necessarily antithetical to intellect, either.” 

_Depending on how in denial you are about your own feelings,_ you thought ruefully. _And how much that bites you in the ass when you feel them anyway._ Watching your emotions was something you’d gotten used to doing, but getting run away by them was rare and disorienting and, frankly, made you feel stupid. The fact that Thrawn called you intelligent not half an hour after watching your little hissy fit in the training room felt like a shade of forgiveness you hadn’t known you wanted.

“You’re certainly as smart as your reputation maintains, sir,” you said, unsure of how else to talk about that topic with a Chiss of all people. Much less the one who was the eye of the maelstrom of your most unmanageable feelings lately. “So from you it’s a compliment.” 

“Noted,” he said, faint smile playing over his lips again. You were reaching for something else, _anything_ else to say, when his wrist comm chirped and you felt your heart sink. “Ah. That is a summons to the command deck, I’m afraid. I will study the schematic I spoke of and contact you tomorrow morning with my recommendation for which room will suit your purposes, Laureate. And, as I am off-duty tomorrow as well, we may resume the sessions, if that is agreeable.” 

“Yes, sir.” You wanted to pout again, but this time it was just for the loss of his company in that pleasantly underlit room. He reached over to slide the chip out of the holo-projector, and the lights returned to normal. “Thank you, sir, for taking so much of your time to help me.” 

“You are my guest,” he said, extending a hand to indicate the door as he began to walk towards it. “It is my honor to attend to you.”

For the first time, instead of insisting upon the depth of your gratitude, you just smiled at him. Your insistence didn’t really serve any purpose but to reassure yourself that you merited his graces, after all. But for the first time you were beginning to believe him when he showed you his particular and highly technical brand of consideration, that there was no obligation or unwillingness. You retrieved the unfinished portrait from its place against the wall before exiting through the door just behind him. 

When the two of you approached the bridge doors, he stopped and nodded to you. 

“Until tomorrow, Laureate,” he said, and his voice was still as gentle as it had been before.

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly this is where the Thraddy energy gets real for a minute but i do love it. also erotic art history huh 👀


	11. by design

Standing outside of your room aboard the _Chimaera_ with supplies piled into your arms and satchels slung over your shoulders, you took a deep breath. This was a pivot, you told yourself. A moment from which there was no return. You knew without a shadow of a doubt that in agreeing to what Thrawn had proposed, you were doomed to finding yourself spilling all of your guts about just how wildly, unfathomably enamored of him you were. The fact that last night had been nothing but thoughts of how close he’d been, of this particular peppery and rich scent that you’d barely noticed until he walked away from you and onto the bridge… _this is out of control,_ you thought. Even though his presence still intimidated you to some degree, his genteel behavior particularly since inviting you on board his ship was starting to placate your nerves enough to make you certain that you’d blurt something out, given the right provocation. 

And, between yesterday’s impromptu exploration of erotic art and _this,_ such provocation seemed inevitable. Not so much a choice you would make, but something drawn out of you that otherwise had you by the throat, the sketch Thrawn had taken notice of mocking you from where you’d taped it to the wall in your quarters while you lay there pining. But, it was written. There was no denying it. So, you found yourself marching along with absurd amounts of stuff attached to you, dressed in your studio rags, eyeing the map on your datapad. 

There they were, the doors that marked what felt more and more like an event horizon. _Maker,_ you thought, _I hope he lets me down easy if it turns out I’m just reacting to Chiss pheromones, or something. He could get me fired without even raising a finger._

There was no mistaking the Grand Admiral’s suite, of course. Not that it was wildly different from yours; it was larger, but everything was still some shade or another of gray. But the collection of art that broke up the dull monotony of the walls was the mark of Thrawn. Strangely, you did not see the man himself, though.

“Er, Admiral?” you called a little timorously, crossing into the space as the doors hung open awaiting your passage. You heard a paintbrush tumble out of Maker knew where onto the floor behind you. 

“Ah, Laureate,” came his voice, and you realized there was another little room apart from the sitting area that opened from the entrance. It was partially walled off, and he came around the corner dressed in his usual crisp, white uniform. His eyes fell immediately onto the precarious mass of paint and brushes and turp that you clung to. “Why is it that you did not request assistance bringing all of this with you?” 

“I… didn’t think about it, to be honest, sir,” you replied sheepishly. You lived alone, after all. You were used to doing everything yourself, however haphazardly.

“Allow me,” he said, and approached to pull the heavy wooden easel out of your arms. The real easel was much easier to work on than the portable one, at least in the long-term, but damn, it was a pain to move. Thrawn lifted it like it weighed nothing, and turned it upright to begin tugging its legs apart. “There is quite adjustable lighting here, so you may arrange the space however you wish.”

“Will you show me the lights?” You were shuffling your stuff onto the little low table near his couches, leaning the shielded painting against a cushioned chair. “I need them to set up.”

“Of course.” 

So began the arduous task of arranging the approximation of a studio, of telling him precisely which lights needed to be how bright for what you needed and which spots would be ideal for what stool. It felt like you were being impossibly demanding and nitpicky, ever adjusting the direction of each beam. But Thrawn never issued a single complaint. He was as impassive as always, tweaking the controls until you were happy with them. 

“The only thing I’m worried about,” you were saying as you opened the easel fully and dragged it over to your elected location with much less grace than the Chiss while he moved the couch out of your way, “is the light on my board. It’s manageable now, but I think it might work better to add a spot lamp or something.” 

“I have already requested a spare lamp from engineering,” he replied. “I anticipated that this might arise problematic for you based on my studies of the available options.” 

“Oh,” you mumbled, smiling in spite of yourself. “Thank you, sir.”

“We shall see when it arrives if it will suit. Until then, I have only a desk light.”

“That’s alright!” you assured him, feeling your heart skip a little. “That’ll work for now.” He’d _really_ thought about this. And with that, you were already seeing evidence of the precise issue you’d identified this morning when he’d commed to say that it was his quarters, of all the places on this enormous ship, that suited your spatial and lighting needs best. 

The possibility that he’d done so on purpose had not slipped your mind, and you’d wondered if this was a game or experiment of some kind; then again, he was basically leasing out his living room as your studio for the next couple of weeks. That was hardly a convenience. And surely he knew what he was getting into, having seen your studio before. Nevermind that you’d decided to relegate yourself to your room for personal work; the thought of smearing oil paint on the Grand Admiral’s carpet was not one you relished.

When it was all just so, and as tidy as it would ever be, you stood there observing your handiwork for a moment. 

“Would you like to begin now?” he asked in his interminably collected manner. 

“Oh. Um, sure.” 

It wasn’t home, you thought as you perched on the chair from his desk and watched Thrawn settle onto your folding stool. But it would do. The lamp was on the low table, shining at an odd angle, but it would serve its purpose for now. You eyed the painting itself, the calculus of your method running over it. It felt a little less done than the last time you’d looked at it, or maybe you’d just acquired more details of the Grand Admiral’s face of late.

Your subject, on the other hand, looked perfect. The light was just slightly less bright than daylight in the studio, and even that minor shift threw the prominent cheekbones and lines of his face into relief with deepening shadows. As you set about working, you felt almost calm as long as you didn’t think _I am painting him in his own bedroom right now_ too many times between brush strokes.

You wheedled away at his nose, his eyelids, his lips; you let the subtle blues the rainy daylight had revealed to you take the place of the smaller shifts of light, already imagining how the burnt sienna and browns would layer atop them ever so slightly to push them back. You could have done this all day, your workflow coming naturally with a brush in your hand. 

“It appears I was right, then,” came Thrawn’s voice after you knew not how long. “This room did suit your desires well.” 

“Yes,” you replied, smiling a little. You were making short little strokes, blending his jawline. “I suppose you _are_ a tactician, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Perhaps.” The suggestion of humor was on his face. “Not the same as strategizing to create in such an environment, I’m sure.”

“I don’t think I strategize half so much about my work as you think I do,” you said. “I’m flattered, though.”

“Were you not describing to me a strategy for the beginning of your most recent personal work?” he asked, brow lifting by a smuggler’s margin. 

“No, not at all. I was describing a _process,_ and it’s much more emergent than planned ahead.”

“It appeared that you had quite the strategy laid out, and were revisiting it upon seeing unsatisfactory results.” 

Was this a very Chiss way of saying you made it look easy? Because that was a comment you’d heard a few hundred times before, though never quite in this context.

“I’m not a strategist. That’s not how art works. I studied well, and I continue to learn, but every time I start a piece I have to be prepared to throw everything I know away if that’s what it takes to get it right,” you said, looking from your brush to his face. “I think creating art is seeking something that, even if I start out with a specific intent, I don’t really _know_ until I arrive at the end. That’s the frustrating part, when you realize you can’t just beat your materials into the image you want. You have to let it come to you, or through you, from some deep place.”

You wondered if his stare, which was just a whisper more thoughtful than usual, meant that he couldn’t understand you. Perhaps the relatively passionless disposition of his species meant that drawing up from the bottom of one’s emotional well was a concept that didn’t resonate with him, though he seemed to find it worth exploring regardless. 

“I suppose that is part of the intelligence we discussed yesterday,” he said after a moment. “The intelligence of absolute adaptation, predicated on prior knowledge but not beholden to it.”

“Maybe,” you ceded. “And the ability to incorporate new knowledge as you go, too, because you may need it for whatever you’re trying to make.” 

“That is a highly particular skillset, Laureate.”

“What, stumbling around like a baby gundark, but making it look beautiful in the end?” you asked, grinning wryly.

“Abandoning yourself to this process, as you call it, of creation,” he replied. “Yet maintaining the grace of the knowledge you already have, or can acquire. That is what makes art itself so fascinating. It is expressive in all its forms, but generally the only publicly acceptable way to express with _abandon_ . With complete honesty. _Bliss of Souls_ does come to mind, as it’s been publicly viewable for a few thousand years.”

“Well, people can be opaque in their art, too,” you countered. “But, I do believe that it’s most evocative and most interesting when it’s sincere to that depth. Regardless of if you know the exact thing it’s expressing or not.” 

The lower light in his quarters made his eyes’ glint more obvious than it had been under the angles of the studio windows. “I very much agree,” he said.

You were in the middle of a series of especially fine strokes with a thinner brush, when quite suddenly a stab of pain shot up your arm and out to your fingertips from your wrist. You hissed, your whole arm jerking away from the board and the brush clattering to the floor. Tucking your hand up against your body, you grabbed your wrist as though to squeeze the lingering pangs out of it somehow. 

“Are you alright?” He was off the stool, approaching you before you could shoo him away.

“I’m fine, it’s just my wrist,” you murmured, flexing your fingers which were half numb suddenly. Then, your eyes caught the sheen of oil paint on the carpet. “Oh, shit. I’m making a mess, too.”

“No harm will come to the room from the paint, I assure you,” he said, tone measured as he took a knee by your little perch. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” you admitted, strangely reluctant to seem pained in front of such a powerful man. But it seemed foolish to lie about something so obvious. “It started getting achy earlier, but I thought it stopped for a while. Maybe I just stopped paying attention.”

“Laureate,” he said, and there was _almost_ a scold in his voice. “You should not work when in pain. Will you allow me to examine it?”

“Examine my wrist?” you asked, blinking. “Um, sure…”

He took your hand, drawing it away from your torso to lay with your palm facing up. The warmth from his touch sent goosebumps all over you instantly. Then, he began to massage your palm with his thumb as he pressed two fingers against the wrist just below it. 

“Move your fingers,” he instructed softly. So you did, because who disobeys orders so gently given from a man like Thrawn? You could feel the strained movement of your tendons beneath his touch, and it was unpleasant. The tingling ache drew a grimace out of you. “That’s fine,” he said, stilling your motions. “This seems much more acute than before.”

“It is.”

Now he was running long, gentle strokes down your wrist while he continued to massage your palm, and you were shocked at the relief that washed over you as he did. Despite the fact that his hands were sending electricity all over your body, the pain was easing off. Your cheeks were hot, heart in your ears, but you felt incredibly soothed nonetheless. It was strange and lovely, to be both excited and becalmed at once.

“It may be wise to take more regular pauses,” Thrawn said. 

“I know, you’re right,” you sighed, watching his blue hands run methodically over yours. “I never think to. I don’t notice anything else when I’m working.”

That might not have been entirely true, of course, but noticing _him_ was part of your work at that moment, so there was no way to be sure.

“I am aware. But perhaps it is time to introduce a little more strategy into your work.”

You smiled, though it was brief under the sheer weight of the longing that was building up in your chest the more he touched you; it was starting to become overwhelming. “Maybe,” you said, almost whispering.

It was like the magnetism of his strange eyes pulled yours powerfully up towards them, a place where once angels feared to tread now difficult for you to look away from. He was _so_ close, the smell you remembered from the day before filling your inward breaths again, spiking your desire. Your arm was starting to go slightly limp under his ministrations, the rest of you desperate to follow it. Now he was staring back, that look that obfuscated his inner workings so completely in its alien affect.

 _Maker,_ you thought distantly, _this escalated even more quickly than I expected._ You took a moment, leaning ever so slightly towards him on your stool, to try and gather some semblance of the words you needed. But they were hesitant, and he broke the silence first.

“Does that feel better?” he asked you quietly, almost a purr again, your insides turning liquid at the sound.

“Y-yes,” you murmured. “Thrawn, I—”

If it had been the familiar beep of a commlink, you would have ignored it. But the sound that interrupted you before the dam could break was a huge, urgent blaring; the ship’s siren was sounding, the red emergency light on the ceiling starting to flash. You froze, astonished. 

“Shit,” you said after a split second. Thrawn nearly leapt to his feet.

“That’s a priority alert,” he said, everything about his countenance shifting in ways that you’d only just begun to be able to really see. His voice was louder, firmer; the sharpness of his focus was profound. Here was the Admiral everyone gossiped about. He tapped his wrist. “Commander, what’s going on?”

“It’s the insurgents!” Vanto responded almost immediately. “They just dropped out of hyperspace and started firing, sir!” 

“Power to the shields, send out the corvettes for offense, and prep the TIEs,” he said, and it was nothing like the way you’d ever heard anyone else give orders under such sudden duress. It was authoritative, but not a bark; he already knew what he wanted to do and no panic colored his voice. You rose to your feet, watching the Admiral closely, _your_ panic only just starting to set in. “I’ll be on the bridge presently.”

“Yessir!”

“Laureate,” he said, turning completely towards you to put his hands on your shoulders with so much less urgency than made sense, “The entire ship is going into lockdown. We will overpower them, but I cannot guarantee your safety unless you remain here.”

“Here? In your quarters?” you asked, voice thin with fear.

“Yes. Do not leave until I return.”

“O-okay—” You were nodding, but the instant he registered your acceptance he turned away towards the door. It was like you blinked and he was gone, the siren blaring in your ear, the red light bouncing off the walls to leave its searing imprint on your vision. 

You were alone in Thrawn’s room, heart racing like you were on fire, totally shocked. Your hands shook as you sank back down onto your stool, looking over at the unfinished image of the Admiral.

Before you started to hyperventilate, you wondered faintly if this was to be your last portrait, or if you were just being melodramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you gotta deal with a surprise attack when you're a grand admiral, yanno?  
> in-charge Thrawn is hot anyway ;)


	12. focal point

The time you spent inside the Grand Admiral’s suite awaiting Thrawn’s return was blurred in the wake of your disorientation. The panic attack that struck you instantly when he’d left the room lingered; it felt like an age that you sat there, hunched over your knees on the stool, heart trying to beat its way out of your body and lungs clamoring to keep it between them where it belonged. Twice you thought you were finally descending back to a more manageable state, and the ship had rumbled violently and started the whole process over again.

At length you made your way around the partial wall in desperate search of the ‘fresher. It was in the other space, as was Thrawn’s bed. You’d gone to splash cold water on your face, feeling yourself start to gray out as though your mind and body could no longer bear the shock together. The chill helped, as it often did; you found yourself sinking onto the tiled floor by the bath, trying to collect your thoughts. But every noise you heard or thought you heard was startling, draining you more and more as you sat there even after the lights returned to normal.

Finally, feeling as though your limbs were cast of durasteel, you trudged out into the bedroom and collapsed onto the soft gray blanket that was tucked so pristinely over the white sheets. You were asleep almost as soon as you curled into the fetal position on the bed. Dreams came, frightening dreams where you ran out into the hall to stumble over Thrawn’s injured body, or woke up to watch the ship careening towards Coruscant through a window that appeared wholly to allow you stare into the maw of such a catastrophe. But then they faded, and your mind that was now so wholly dispossessed of the familiar and comforting slid into oblivion.

\- - - - 

“Laureate?” 

The voice was so quiet and far away that it seemed like another dream, of more pleasant and unlikely qualities than its forebears. You shifted, eyes still shut, drawing in a breath. Then came a heat on your shoulder— a hand, its weight cautious but firm. A tiny noise exited your throat, slipping out between slumber and awareness. 

“Laureate,” the voice said again. Now the hand was moving, making delicate little strokes over the rumpled fabric of your button-down. That tugged you closer to reality, and you realized you’d fallen asleep in your clothes. But the surface you were on was much softer than the little loveseat in the studio foyer you tended to nap in, and who would have come in to wake you, anyway?

Your eyes opened just barely, and you realized that you were on a bed. Not your own bed, either, and someone was sitting beside you trying to wake you. Someone in an all-white uniform, who smelled clean and peppery…

You blinked, and looked up into glowing red eyes set in a blue face that was so beautiful it looked carved out of stone. 

“What happened?” you asked blearily, not yet convinced this wasn’t another dream. Maybe a _much_ better one than the others. 

“The threat has been neutralized,” Thrawn responded in his silken voice. “You are safe, _euhn in'a._ ”

“Oh.” You were starting to remember, casting about the room and reaching up to rub your eyes. Most likely not a dream, then. “Is everyone alright? The ship?”

“The ship took some damage, but nothing that cannot be repaired within the next cycle,” he said. “And no personnel were lost, though some were injured.”

“What time is it?” 

“It is 0700 standard.”

“Maker,” you murmured. “I've been out for a while, then.” You looked back at Thrawn, slowly moving to sit up though you were not at all interested in him removing his hand from your shoulder. He looked calm as ever, and his eyes regarded you closely. You realized that his hair was damp, slicked back from his head, and his uniform was crisp. His smell was especially fresh. 

“I took the opportunity to refresh myself while you were sleeping,” he said as though he noticed you noticing. “I hope I did not wake you.”

“No, not… not at all,” you murmured, glancing around again. Then, you realized exactly where you were, and felt a jolt of panic. “Kriff! I’m sorry, sir, I didn't mean to sleep in _your_ bed—”

“It is of no concern,” Thrawn assured you. “I did order you to stay here in my quarters, after all. And I was gone for some time.”

Your cheeks were hot, but his easy dismissal of your actions started to drain the blood from them. “I could have slept on the couch, I suppose,” you said, glancing away.

“Quite alright. I only hope you were able to sleep well.” 

“I slept like the dead once I finally stopped having nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” He almost seemed to be frowning at this.

“Bad dreams. About bad things happening.” 

“Yes, I have heard humans have those. Are you feeling alright?” 

“I’m…” You took stock for a moment, looking down at your dirty clothes and feeling hollowed out inside. “I’m okay. Just a little hungry.” 

“I will have something sent up from the officer’s mess,” Thrawn offered, though it was more like a statement of intention. “You look a little pale, Laureate. I understand this is your first time on a ship, so I hope you are not disquieted.” 

A pang of guilt washed over you; you _were_ disquieted, in fact, and you knew it in the pit of your stomach. “I’ll manage just fine, sir,” you said. “It’s just a little… rattling.”

“I would not have allowed harm to come to you,” he replied, and the absolute certainty of his words struck you strangely. It was reassuring in a way you hadn’t expected— of course there was always unpredictability, the web of chance impossible even for a man of his tactical prowess to wholly account for. But there might be no creature alive more likely than he to predict the vast majority of them, to say nothing of the relentlessness of his commitments. 

“Thank you, sir,” you almost whispered. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he said. Your heart jumped inside your ribs; that sentence was fully loaded coming from the Grand Admiral, in your experience. “Now that the insurgents have been subdued, we are resuming our course once repairs have been completed. In the meantime, we are above Iridonia for this cycle. It seems that the opportunity to make holo recordings of the ancient Zabrak ruins I once spoke of has arisen unexpectedly.”

“With the ancient art?” you asked, perking up immediately. 

“Yes. Here, let me show you something.” He rose, impossibly regal and tall from where you were sitting, and strode to the room’s control hub on the wall. Before you could divine his purpose, he pressed a button or two and your eyes flew open. 

The entire side wall of the suite was sliding away, revealing a huge transparisteel viewport out into the vastness of space. Gasping, you watched as the splotched gray and rust-orange globe of what could only be Iridonia appeared, hanging in the void. You leapt off of the bed and ran to the window, putting a hand against it. From here, the sun was casting its brilliance over most of the planet, rendering the intricacies of its surface just barely visible in minute detail. Cracks, canyons, and mountains dotted the surface, and vast seas of acidic liquid pooled in bismuth yellow all around them. 

“Oh, wow,” you whispered. You saw Thrawn’s reflection as he approached behind you, a ghost half-faded into the faintly star-pocked blackness. 

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it? Even inhospitable places can appear so, from orbit,” he said, voice still a smooth lilt. “The ruins are rather tucked away from the nearest Zabrak villages, some three hundred kilometers or so. We would be unlikely to be disturbed. If you desired to accompany me, that is.”

That was just about the only thing in the galaxy that could have ripped your eyes away from such a view in that moment. Your head snapped over to look at him, hand falling from the cold transparisteel. “M-me?” you stammered. “Go with you… down there?” 

“To the ruins, yes.”

“I…” You blinked. “Is it dangerous?” 

“Not particularly, though there is some wildlife that is less than friendly,” he replied. Something in his expression was almost amused. “But, we have technology that repels the reeks and other more volatile creatures. The caverns are subterranean and thus difficult for the larger fauna to traverse. I would have a squad of troopers accompany us, as well as the holo recording team, a surveyor, and perhaps Commander Vanto would grace us with his protection as well.” 

The ‘us’ part nearly made you laugh. Thrawn certainly did not need Vanto’s protection, you thought, but it was sweet of him to pretend that you weren’t the only one who would be inexperienced and afraid. For a moment, it sank in just how inexperienced and afraid you actually were, and you chewed your lip as you glanced back at the planet below.

But it was the chance of a lifetime, for someone so inconsequential as you.

“Alright,” you said, gaze turning back to Thrawn. “I’ll go with you.” 

“Excellent,” he replied, the faint little quirk of a smile on his cheeks. “Then I suppose it would be best for you to return to your quarters and ready yourself for departure. I will have breakfast sent there for you.” 

“Oh, sir—”

“Now, _euhn in'a._ Your protests fall upon deaf ears, as you put it. If all of this is agreeable to you, we shall be ready to depart in one and a half standard hours.”

There was that word again, or two words? The second time he’d called you that this morning, in fact. Every time he did, for whatever reason, your heart became soupy and you felt a little more entranced. It must be the Chiss language, and it rolled off of his tongue in plush curling waves that sounded almost musical even for just a brief moment. 

“Yes, alright,” you agreed, nodding. He gestured towards the exit, walking you to the door. 

“I will send Commander Vanto to your quarters to escort you to the shuttle.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Until then,” he said as the door slid open. You stared back at him for just a moment. 

“Okay,” you sighed, and then you were in the hall and the door was shut. You half-floated to your room, and whether that was due to the semi-delirium of recovery from the attack or the dreamlike notion of the rest of your day like a dancing mirage before you, you weren’t sure. 

By the time Vanto arrived, you were back on your feet, freshly showered and dressed, and had scarfed down your breakfast. You’d opted for a jumpsuit for the trip, and a pair of boots that were probably not quite utilitarian enough for such a wild excursion, but they were what you had. It seemed prudent to dress comfortably and practically, as you had no idea just how much walking through rocks and canyons you were about to do. 

“Morning, Laureate!” Vanto greeted you cheerfully. “Hope you survived our little interruption without too much distress.” 

“I, uh, managed,” you said, pulling a satchel over your shoulder where you’d stowed a little sketchbook and some graphite and oil pencils. Who knew what you’d see down there, after all? “I’m glad nothing and no one is the worse for wear.”

“Thrawn gave you the update, did he? Yeah, it wasn’t quite as impressive of an attack as their initial element of surprise led us to think. But, not a bad silver lining, right?” 

You smiled. “Yes, it was kind of the Admiral to invite me along.”

“I doubt he’d let you miss it,” Vanto chuckled. “You’re the only other person on board who’s as excited as he is about it.” 

“Well, thanks for having me either way,” you replied, falling in beside him. He led you down to the hangar bay, where a little nondescript gray shuttle was awaiting you. There were nine troopers outside of it, as well as a couple of officers hauling survey and holograph equipment up its ramp. Thrawn stood aside, watching. 

“I believe we’re all set to go, sir,” said Vanto as the two of you sidled up to him. 

“Very good. Then let us get underway,” he replied. 

The trip to the surface was brief, but you found yourself peeking up towards the cockpit to watch the planet approach. For the moment, at least, you felt no space sickness. Only your heart thudding with excitement that was laced with just enough fear to launch into full exhilaration. 

Once the shuttle made planetfall, you filed out alongside everyone else and trailed behind Thrawn as he led the expedition over some rocky terrain, down into a little canyon and towards a rock formation. 

“Can you see its entrance, Laureate?” he asked, turning a little to look back at you. You squinted up ahead at the gray-brown stones that looked like they’d been chewed away long ago by one of the acid seas, now evaporated into nothing but traces of phosphorus and sulfur in the dry soil. Nothing that looked like an obvious opening was visible; but then, that wasn’t surprising since this place had evidently lain hidden for hundreds or even thousands of years. 

Then you saw it. A place where the rocks appeared to be almost pulling apart as you walked closer— a trick of the eyes, meant to look like a flat plane. Only by watching with the same closeness that you observed the faces you painted had you been able to spot it.

“There’s two slabs of stone overlapping,” you said. “It’s an optical illusion. An opening between them you can only see if you get close enough to touch it.” 

Thrawn’s little smile could have been mistaken for smug by someone who had spent less time staring at him than you had. You knew he was pleased, maybe even a little proud of you. 

“Quite difficult to spot for most,” he said coolly. “I wondered if you might see it. It’s very subtle, not quite natural.”

“It’s a little uncanny, yeah,” you agreed. “But the Zabrak are supposed to be able to do some kind of witchcraft— or they were, at least.” 

“Yes, I wonder.” He did seem to puzzle that a moment. It made sense that a man like him would be dubious of the supernatural, or even the supernal. You didn’t know for sure, of course, if such magic was real or not. But in a galaxy this large, it didn’t seem totally impossible. 

The group approached the stones, found the little tucked-in entrance, and proceeded down what at first looked like a natural incline but quickly became a very clearly being-made flight of shallow steps. Thrawn and the others turned on lanterns they were carrying, and when the sun finally vanished behind you, you felt yourself shiver. 

Being trapped underground was not necessarily your idea of a good afternoon, and it wasn’t something you’d considered fully before this precise moment. You weren’t certain, but you thought that maybe the Admiral detected as much, as he hovered very close to you and held his light aloft to make sure you could both see well ahead. 

“Mind your head,” he said quietly when you approached an area full of stalactites; fingers of stone crawling down from the ceiling in odd shapes that were worn away in the same vaguely threatening gnaw as the rocks above. They weren’t built up by sediment drips, but chewed out by acidic underground water that must have been boiling half the time to leave such strange shapes behind. You ducked under one that came down close on your side, almost bumping into Thrawn as you did; when the warmth of his hand landed softly on your low back as if to guide you, a dose of a different sort of excitation slid into your guts. You said nothing, focusing on staying close to him.

When the cavern opened up in front of you, it was sudden and surprising. The ceiling of the cave vaulted without warning, and there were holes worn high above in the rock that let beams of sunlight through all the way to the dirt floor. And on that ceiling, you realized, was a pattern— hundreds of patterns, lines that zigzagged and curled and darted between each other in little staccato marks. You stared up at it, lit by the sunbeams that filled the rest of the cavern with soft orange light. 

“Oh, Maker,” you breathed. Just the scale of the place was awe-inspiring. Thrawn moved you along with him, drawing you both out of the path that the surveyors and holo recorders were taking deeper into the ruins. They must have known their plan for the day’s work; if Thrawn had a plan for the two of you, you were sure you’d find out soon enough. 

He let you stand there and marvel for a moment before speaking again. “This is only the start. If you’ll follow me, we can move through the other chambers.” 

“There’s more?” 

“Quite a bit more.” 

“Oh,” you sighed again, and fell in beside him as he began to march you both along behind the others. 

Every chamber, in fact, was different. The more you saw, the more your mind spun thinking about what this could mean for the history of the Zabrak, their diaspora to Dathomir, their culture as warriors and its origin in whatever their civilization was when this place had been created. You talked excitedly to Thrawn, and sketched out patterns and designs in your little book as the two of you moved along.

Vanto had stayed behind with the group, supervising as they set up their equipment. There was a trooper posted at the entrance, and they dotted the chambers as you and Thrawn made your way through them. By the time the last one had been given his position, his voice came over the commlink on Thrawn’s wrist while the two of you were making towards an opening into yet another space. 

“Grand Admiral, are you certain you want to continue?” they asked. “There are no more guards left to follow you.” 

“That’s quite alright, Sergeant,” he replied. “I know these caves rather better than the others. We won't stray far. If we encounter a problem, we will return.”

“Yes, sir.” 

You looked up at Thrawn as he turned off the link. “Problems?” you asked in a small voice. 

“I anticipate none,” he said. “When I was last here, we kept to the chambers with sunlight and encountered no danger.”

You nodded. When he extended his elbow so that you might take his arm, your face got a little warm again. His courteousness was increasing at an exponential rate on this trip— not that it had been lacking before, but you wondered if his attention was because you were so nervous despite being absolutely overjoyed at being able to stand and examine so much brand new, intact ancient art. 

“Thank you, sir,” you said, looping a hand over his forearm a little bashfully. He didn’t reply, and instead simply led you on into another, smaller chamber with a high ceiling. There were columns by now, as though these older parts had been used more frequently and intentionally by whoever lived here. The openings in the high ceiling weren’t weathered holes, but windows cut in the rock face above. Carved in shapes that seem to either flow with or disrupt the patterns that were painted in some kind of black medium on the smooth, beige rock. 

Down at the other end were two openings, tall and narrow triangles cut into the rock. So far you’d been speculating with Thrawn a little on the purpose of the patterns and the spaces you’d been moving through, but this time you were quiet. Those doors— because there was no doubt in your mind that they were doors— were entrances into what could have been anything from a sacred temple to a kitchen for all you knew. 

“Are those the darker places you found before?” you asked the Chiss. There was a part of you that wanted very badly to discover what mystery was shrouded there in darkness beyond them, the art historian that always wanted to know.

“Yes,” he said. “One was rather dank, as though there might be water farther down. By design or by the natural progression of the land, I’m not certain. The other was much dryer.” 

“What if the damp one led to a reservoir? An underground well for the people here?” 

“That thought had occurred to me, though I question its safety for non-natives to drink of. This planet is heavily acidic, and there are trace metals in the seas in higher concentrations than, say, a human could safely consume.” 

“Did you have a guess as to the other one?” 

He glanced at you, then over at the righthand door. “No, in fact. The purposes of these larger rooms has eluded me, though I think it is safe enough to say that they made for large gathering places regularly used. Whether for dining, communing, governing, or spiritual purposes, I do not yet have evidence.”

“But you wanted to have a look, didn't you?” Eyes innocent as a baby nuna’s, you looked up at him. 

“Of course,” he replied. “But I was uncertain of the safety of the passage, and hadn’t the time to explore it more carefully.”

“We could take a look, maybe,” you said. “Just peek in the door with the light.” 

The corner of his mouth quirked briefly. “My concern is that a creature may lie in wait there to ambush the unwary.”

“Toss the lantern in?”

“I considered that, yes.” He glanced between you and the door again. “But if we do so, you must stay here and allow me to investigate first.” Your nod was without protest; you didn’t want Thrawn struck by some dark-dwelling cave predator, but he was far more equipped to deal with that than you were. And you had a little commlink in one of your pockets, in case you needed to call for help. 

When the Admiral drew his blaster, you held your breath. But he approached the door cautiously, holding his lantern before him. Nothing darkened the opening when his light fell onto it, but he tucked himself behind the carvings in its frame to peer around inside and toss the lamp ahead with movements that were so fast it took you a moment to register them. 

The light rolled inside, illuminating a passage that was taller than the door but still a sloping triangle that vanished into a much deeper darkness. 

“You may approach,” he called to you. You scuttled over, trying to examine inside. “Stand here at the entrance,” he said. “I will go to the lantern, and be certain nothing awaits further down the passage.” 

He didn’t wait for your confirmation this time, simply striding with his firearm still firmly in-hand towards where the lamp was prone on the stone floor. Picking it up, he cast it farther ahead. It was utterly silent inside, with no space to send sounds ringing through like they did in the large chambers. 

Then he turned, and you could almost see an opening carved into the wall. Thrawn paused, regarding it with all the curiosity he always seemed to be leveling at you. 

“Laureate,” he said at length, “I think you may find this interesting.” 

That was more than enough to propel you forward, coming up beside him to look into the alcove that was carved in the wall. Inside it was much cooler than in the other rooms, and the lack of draft rendered the air just still enough that you could hear your own heart beating in your ears, and the sound of your breaths seemed huge. Within the alcove, which was cut some ten meters back into the wall, was what looked like an altar. Strewn around it were things that looked like jewelry and trinkets, tiny statuettes of creatures you didn’t recognize. There were beads, some of which seemed to be set with pale moon-colored stones. Heavy ceramic pots were on the floor, their lids tied shut with ancient and brittle leather thongs. Anything organic that had made its way here in offering had long since turned to dust. 

“Wow,” you murmured. “So it _is_ a temple of some kind.” 

“It would seem so.” 

“Can we go farther down?” 

“I think not,” Thrawn said, and there was only a slight sternness in his voice even though you felt like you’d been edging at the limit of your luck for a while now. “The farther from the light, the more risky movement becomes.” 

“Can’t Chiss see in the dark?” you asked. Just one of the dozens of rumors always swirling around Coruscant about this man, of course.

“We perceive infrared light,” he answered. “And our hearing is sharper than a human’s. But I would not risk your safety to press onwards in spite of those things. I’m afraid enough risk has already come to you under my supervision.” 

In the light of the little lantern, his face was more dramatically shadowed than usual. It had the unexpected effect of throwing his minute facial expressions into stronger relief. Which meant that you could see plainly, at least by his standards, that he was feeling something akin to remorse for how the previous cycle’s attack had affected you. Turning towards him, you met the faint glow of his red eyes. 

“Sir, it’s hardly your fault that your ship was attacked while I was on board,” you said earnestly to him. “Of course, I hoped something like that wouldn’t happen. But I knew I was boarding a military ship when I agreed to come out here.”

“I am concerned that the experience has troubled you in some way,” he said. “I am not yet truly familiar with human psychology, as it has proven divergent enough from that of the Chiss to puzzle me at times. But I am aware that traumatic experiences may leave their imprint, and that is not the experience I would prefer to leave you with.”

Well, that was… staggeringly kind of him, in fact. You felt yourself soften and smile just a little.

“Thank you, but I know I’ll be alright. It wasn’t fun, sure, but… well, you’ve offset my anxiety a lot by bringing me down here,” you told him. “This place is more beautiful than I’d ever imagined. It’s more than making up for any bad experience so far.”

“Good.” You could have sworn his expression had fallen nearly tender for the first time since you'd met him. Somewhere deep in your core, a vibration rippled out through you; how badly you wanted to touch him became suddenly very clear and present in your mind. “And I will keep you safe here as well.” 

“I believe you.” If you had already been so close to him or had somehow drifted there in the past few moments without realizing, you didn’t know. “You’ve given me so much, Admiral, by bringing me out here. I didn’t realize how much. But I’m so glad that you offered.” 

That seemed to bring his muted little smile back, a sight that made your insides jump. He looked down at you, eyes wandering from one feature on your face to another. “There is much more that I can give.”

You almost held your breath, and your heartbeat was surely ringing off the walls of the high narrow hall and echoing out into the chambers on either side by now. _Kriffing hell, let that mean what I think it means!_ There was no telling how you’d arrived here, how in the galaxy you’d gone from shrinking beneath his calm, ruthless gaze to meeting it with the weight of your admiration and reverence coming to bear fully in your eyes. It had to be obvious by now how smitten you were with him, how much you wanted to wilt beneath his command, his look, his hands. 

“I—” The blip of his commlink cut you off, and you saw actual annoyance flash sharp across Thrawn’s face. 

"Admiral?" came Vanto’s familiar Wild Space cant. Holding up his wrist stiffly, Thrawn nearly growled into it in reply. 

“Yes, Commander?” The sound of it sent shivers down your spine, rose gooseflesh on your arms. It should have been frightening, but even in that tense moment you weren’t sure you could find anything the Admiral did less than acutely attractive.

“Just checking your location, sir, as we haven’t seen you in a while,” Vanto replied, almost suspiciously chipper. “The teams have moved on to the third chamber—”

“Very good,” Thrawn said, terse as he stared down at the little device on his wrist. “You’ll arrive at my location if you continue.”

“Sure you don’t want to come up and check behind me, sir?” 

“Absolutely certain.” 

“When can I expect—”

“I will reconvene with the team when my work is done.” 

“Well, sir—”

“Thank you, Commander,” he said with the kind of finality you’d only ever heard in his voice. You realized you’d frozen, going utterly silent to listen without making some sort of interrupting sound. You’d nearly forgotten there was a whole team and a squad farther back in the ruins. Thrawn terminated the link, and you watched him hold the button until the entire device shut itself off. “That is quite enough of that,” he added, dropping his wrist. “I apologise, Laureate. What were you going to say?”

“Um,” you said. _What_ was _I going to say? What do I even say to someone like him?_ “I— I just… I’m not sure.” Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but at the same time you felt the urge to laugh. It was more silly than mortifying, for once, to have your tongue tied in front of him. “I only mean that, um, I can’t imagine repaying you for what you’ve done already, sir.”

“I require no repayment. Though, if I may, I would like to ask you for something.” The way his voice had suddenly pitched even deeper into a quiet, velvet murmur made your stomach clench. 

“Sir?” you asked. Then, you felt one finger rise to push your chin up just a fraction. 

“Say my name.” 

You were too deep in the hypnosis he’d cast over you to blink or otherwise react when you felt surprise at his request. In that moment, he could have asked you to do absolutely anything.

“Thrawn?” It was almost a question, as though you wanted to be sure you were saying it right, saying whatever it was that he wanted to hear. His eyes flickered ever so briefly. The warmth of his finger moved slowly along your jaw, then back to your chin as he leaned closer to you.

“Again," he said, even quieter this time.

_Maker alive._

“Thrawn.” This time, the coil inside you that his achingly light touch had begun to tighten pushed his name out dripping with desire; breathy, heavy, shamelessly close to a plea. He let out something between a low rumble and a hum, a sound that drove a spike between your legs. 

“Mmm. That is lovely,” he purred. Your whole body seemed to hang from where his finger was hooked under your chin. His eyes and his mouth, top lip just slightly curled in a little smirk, fought for your gaze as they hovered close. Your breaths came in slow, shallow, nearly desperate. 

The end of his aquiline nose brushed against yours, finger tilting your head upwards a fraction more. You wondered if he was holding you there, silent and intent and so close you could feel the heat of his breath in your mouth, simply because he could. Perhaps you should have been ashamed or afraid to be so utterly in his thrall, but the way he’d been tending you, protecting you since you’d set foot on the _Chimaera_ washed all of your old insecurities away. 

The world that spun with you on its surface seemed to slow to a halt when his lips finally landed on yours. He was neither delicate nor harsh, neither aggressive nor cautious. It was like he knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly what _you_ wanted. Finger still lingering under your chin, face tilted just so, he captured you effortlessly. Your lips tugged at each other, and when your mouth fell more open his tongue ran over the inside of your lower lip softly. Pulling in a gasp through your nose, you leaned even deeper into him. 

Time held itself still around the two of you in the light of the lantern, tucked away inside the tiny little sacred place deep in the Zabrak ruins. If your body hadn’t been so powerfully electrocuted by every movement of his mouth in tandem with yours, you might’ve sworn you were actually dreaming. At first you were almost too terrified to move, to reveal this was only a vision somehow or transgress in some way. But it wasn’t long before you were gripping his arm and putting your opposite hand on his chest, shuddering when you felt the muscles there beneath his uniform jacket. Ones you had glimpsed ever so furtively before, now actual clay you could feel. 

When he drew your lips apart at last, they hovered close. 

“The others will be arriving in a moment,” he said softly. You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, suspended there in his gravity. But you nodded ever so faintly, acknowledging that unfortunately he was right. His fingertips brushed up from your chin over your cheek, and at last your eyelids fluttered. He came close again, pressing open lips gently against the skin just beside your mouth. At last he withdrew, standing up to his full height with a string of profound ache drawn in the air between your bodies. You dropped your hands, and he dropped his, and you stood there looking at each other for a quiet moment. 

“After you, Laureate,” he said in the familiar, inflectionless voice you knew from every other day you’d ever heard him speak. Tearing yourself away, you turned and walked back out into the chamber. Sure enough, the sound of the teams making their way down from the last one came clear through its wide entrance. 

“Ah, there you are!” said Vanto. “So, this is the last room we can get today, then?” 

“Yes, I believe so. It is late, and our guest will be wanting dinner soon I'm sure,” came Thrawn’s voice from behind you. 

“Find anything interesting down there?” Vanto asked. 

“Just a little altar, or something like one,” you said, shocked at how casual your voice was, as though Thrawn's tongue hadn't been tracing patterns inside your mouth moments before. “But the Admiral didn’t want to go deeper into the dark parts, just for the sake of being careful.” 

“Yes, I have deemed it necessary to come better equipped before we should explore further,” Thrawn said. “In the meantime, I’m certain that what we’ve captured so far will yield much interest.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it will.” Vanto’s look was one of casual pleasantry, but there was something lurking behind it, you thought. Some kind of knowing, maybe, a secret delight. This was far from the first time you’d noticed that from him, but this time it was at its most pronounced. “If you like, sir, I’ll have the pilot ready the shuttle for our departure.”

“That would be most helpful, yes.” Thrawn was utterly opaque, no trace of what had just happened apparent on his face. You almost felt insulted for a moment, before you remembered that he was right to be prudent about any entanglement between the two of you— particularly while he was still your client. 

The idea of seeing the Grand Admiral even approximate swooning over you, though, was as wickedly exciting as it was unlikely.

“And you’re right, sir, I am feeling hungry,” you added, turning towards him with embers still in your eyes. 

“As am I, Laureate,” he replied. You thought you saw that single muscle-twitch of a smile, and for once, you didn’t question it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long- BUT WORTH IT, HUH? :3


	13. line weight

That evening on the ship, after having your dinner in your room because being with Thrawn in front of the other officers was almost more than you could manage, you found yourself on the floor staring at the canvas you’d prepped a long time ago for your personal piece. 

The longing you felt was more acute than ever. The kiss appeared to have only whet your appetite, rather than alleviating it. The figure from your sketch, which was taped to the nearby wall, had manifested once again in graphite on the canvas as you’d begun to lay out your composition. On its knees, shoulders slumped with its hands falling limp into its lap, head tilted back and face upwards as though begging the heavens for some form of release. 

Your paints, the ones you weren’t storing in Thrawn’s quarters, were already strewn about you as you’d hunted for a few hues for your underpainting. As you brought your brush up to the white canvas, you left a streak of rich navy blue behind as you started mapping out the major shadows.

Time always had a tendency to distort itself while you were working. But this was one of those creative frenzies where a piece all but demanded to be created. Your hands flew, utterly hellbent on rendering the exact emotion that was pounding through you at that very moment. Lush purples and rich, indulgent dusky pinks emerged over the blue shadows; all of the hues you chose seemed to echo those of fresh bruises swollen with blood, flushed with desire, no sallow yellow or green to be found. The figure was emerging without the endless finesse of blending that you sometimes focused on, the hallmark of your portraiture. No, these were the brush strokes of someone who needed something that cruel gods withheld. 

When the door of your quarters slid open with a soft hiss, you almost didn’t notice, you were so deeply absorbed in your work. It wasn’t until that voice, the one you’d been hearing in your head all afternoon, broke the air that you were pulled from your fugue.

“Laureate,” Thrawn said in his usual even lilt. There might’ve been a question hidden in it somewhere, but what you heard was a command. Jerking your head up and over, you saw the Chiss standing much closer than you’d expected. “You haven’t answered your comm all evening. Are you well?” 

“Oh,” you said, reality congealing back into its familiar form around you. You weren’t sure if you should be nervous or excited that he was here, so your body was already indulging both. “I— I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t hear it.” You glanced all about the sitting area where you were nestled in your temporary personal workspace, unsure of where your commlink even was. Certainly not on your wrist or in your pocket where it belonged, but that was hardly surprising given your working habits. 

“I considered the possibility that one of the unpredictable creative moods was upon you, but I could not be certain without coming here myself,” he replied. “If I am interrupting, I apologize.” 

“N-no sir.” You were flustered so quickly it was almost embarrassing. Almost. “I was just working on the piece I spoke to you about before.” 

“So I see.” His eyes flickered between you and the painting, which was already dark and rich with shadow and form. “In fact, you resemble it at this moment.”

You looked down at yourself. You’d decided to take to the floor, and now you were on your knees with your brush and palette in your hands now sunken into your lap. When you looked back up at Thrawn, even the tilt of your head matched the image. 

The way his red eyes settled on you carried something you hadn’t been used to spotting in them before, despite his generally kind (if pragmatic) words. He seemed truly impressed, the subtle bow of his smile a beacon from above you. There was something else, too, something that pulled at you like a magnet. His hand slipped down to run the backs of his fingers over your temple.

“I believe you’ve found it,” he said softly. 

“Found what?” Your voice was small but not afraid.

“The longing you wished to express.” 

“I did,” you replied, eyes fixated on him, decidedly no longer talking about the painting. 

“I hope my input was helpful.” Was he talking about the painting anymore, either?

“It was.”

He tilted your head up further to gaze up at his imposing form where it leaned over you, apparently a developing habit that made your guts melt and all semblance of resistance drain from your body. “So clearly, you’ve rendered such an emotion. And having only just begun the work, as well. Truly I find this process of creation you have deeply fascinating.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I admit, I came here partly to be sure that my actions while we were planetside were not untoward,” he said gently. But he didn’t seem perturbed at all— and it seemed obvious to you that the image you were working on reassured him. 

“No,” you breathed. “No, sir, not at all.”

“So deferential,” he cooed. Your entire body lit up, lightning drawn up from your core through to where his hand was touching your chin. 

“I only mean to show respect, sir,” you said, voice trembling a little.

“It’s very… how would you say it. Sweet.” That, you had no idea how to respond to, other than to let your eyes get a little bigger, your face flush a little warmer. But the idea that he’d been ringing your comm all evening and getting no reply kept rising to upset you a little, to beg to know what you’d missed out on.

“I’m so sorry for not answering you, I never meant to—”

“Shh,” he shushed you softly. “I would not dream of interrupting your work.”

“But if you needed something—”

“Not at all. Now that I know you are well, I thought perhaps you and I might schedule another session for tomorrow evening.” 

“Of course, any time.”

“Perhaps after dinner at 1900?”

“Yes.” It was almost too quick, but you were long past caring. 

“Very well,” he said, running his hand along your jaw briefly before finally withdrawing it. Then he stood upright, towering from where you were slumped on the ground, and put his hands behind his back. 

“Goodnight, sir,” you said, unable to look away from him. 

“Goodnight, Laureate,” he replied, and turned to exit the room. 

_Maker,_ you thought, _I’ve got to finish this tonight. At least most of it._ If something like deliverance wasn’t offered the following evening, then so be it— but in the event you were the luckiest fool in the galaxy, better to go ahead and spend your night banging out this piece while the throb of hunger was still hot. You turned back to the canvas, immediately sure of what area you needed to address next. 

Starting at the vulnerable underside of the figure’s uplifted chin, you carried on with your work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay since this chapter is SO short and SUCH a terrible tease for Actual Smut i decided to go ahead and post it for y'all since you've been so patient xD
> 
> but i had to keep it instead of just deleting it, because it's about the art, maaaan. yanno?


	14. solvent

It was almost infuriating how _calm_ Thrawn was. How he didn’t seem to be writhing from within to continue the melody of the kiss you’d shared the day before as soon as he could, sitting there like a statue on his stool. You could feel yourself dragging the brush over the image of his face exactly the way you wanted to drag your fingers across his flesh and bone. But everything about your station and his rank kept you hesitant to initiate even a simple conversation about such a topic, much less state your desires or act upon them. 

So now you were painting, starting to work on some of the finer details, and not kissing him. Thus far you had retained your focus, but the more you felt his eyes boring holes in you the more distracted you got. You avoided his gaze, uncertain what exactly would happen if you became entangled in it given the mixed emotions you were feeling.

But at last the silence overwhelmed your concentration and you found yourself floundering with the brush in your hand. Struck with frustration, you dropped it unceremoniously into the tin of turpentine nestled in the easel. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you huffed, rubbing your wrist across your tense forehead in an effort to keep the paint on your hands from smearing elsewhere. “I’m… I’m a little distracted.” 

“Why is that, Laureate?” he asked, cool and curious as always. 

“Um.” You took a deep breath, feeling your entire body tighten up as though to trap whatever words you needed to say inside your lungs where they could do less damage. Pushing past it with effort, you kept your eyes on the turp as you spoke. “I… when we… okay.” Another breath, but you were still lost as to how to say exactly what was bothering you without catapulting far over any boundaries that might have been dictated by protocol. You shut your eyes, trying to think. 

“Please correct me if this is inappropriate,” you began, and the nervous part of you seemed to approve of this disclaimer, “but… I can’t stop thinking about what happened down in the ruins.” 

There. Simple enough, non-intrusive, straightforward. Your eyes finally drifted up towards him, and you knew you were seeking something— approval, forgiveness, permission. You found that his expression was opaque again, whether because you needed to see something or because he was hiding his response you had no way to know at that moment. Your feelings always made it that much harder to read him, rising up to drown his ever-muted countenance in your own torrid heart (and thighs, if you were being honest.)

That sanguine gaze was a little brighter in the dimmer light of his room, the rich shadows you wanted to create on his portrait augmented by the artificial lighting. There was a flicker within them, as though their light changed direction even though his gaze did not. 

“Please,” he said after a pause. “Continue.” 

_Continue? It was all I could do to muster up what I already said!_

“Well,” you said somewhat shakily, “I… I just… I don’t know how Chiss are about these things, but um, humans…” Maker, was there no way to make you sound like anything but an animal in heat? Maybe not, you decided. Maybe compared to a Chiss, that’s basically what you were. “I guess you could say we have a tendency to want more.”

“More?” 

“What I mean is, I wish more than anything you’d kiss me again,” you blurted out, finally at a loss. How were you supposed to be polite and appropriate talking about something like this, anyway? “And whatever else you wanted, sir…” Your eyes got hung on his again, and your blathering died on your lips. His eyes were brighter, suddenly, and just a little more predatory. 

“I know about human courtship, to some degree,” he said softly. “It is… different, but not entirely so, from that of my people. My intention was to reserve any further pursuit until after your work for the evening was complete.” 

Perhaps the most blatant thing the Grand Admiral had ever said, you thought as your breath hitched at the word _pursuit._ And so very like him, to save such possibly emotional matters for when the work of the intellect was done.

“I appreciate that, but I can’t even focus on it. I’m sorry if that’s, I dunno, unprofessional, or foolish, or something. But it’s… it’s just how I feel.”

Thrawn was taking to his feet from the stool, and something inside you compelled you to get up and stand as well, hovering by your easel with an uncertain heart pounding in your cheeks. He approached to stand close and gaze down at you.

“If your work for the evening is done, Laureate, then we may of course move on to other activities,” he said in his low purr, the one that made you shiver from deep within. All you could summon the wherewithal to do was nod, and pick up a clean paint rag to wipe off your hands. If you got so much as a single mark of oil on his uniform, you thought, you’d never forgive yourself. 

Then, you turned back towards him. “I’m sorry if I was too—”

“Don’t fret, _euhn in'a._ I very much like it when you express yourself,” he said. “In fact, humans are so expressive in general that it truly beguiles me how deeply you must feel the things you cannot so easily say, the emotions that drive you to paint instead. The sensations must be strong, to create as you do. For Chiss, our responses are more limited.”

“Limited how?”

“It depends upon many things, but generally I would say it is a much slower progression. It takes some time developing rapport for our bodily responses to a potential interest to become intuitive, natural.” _Bodily responses,_ you thought. _How different from humans can they really be…?_

“How do you build rapport, exactly?”

His little smile appeared. “For myself, I have always preferred conversation about the arts and similar topics. But closeness may be achieved from many other sorts of activities, sometimes unintentionally.” 

“With respect, sir, I don’t believe that you do anything unintentionally,” you almost laughed. 

“Circumstantially, I have been surprised to make a connection before. My intentions were focused elsewhere.” He was unperturbed, maybe even enjoying your little remark.

“Well, I suppose I can understand that. Some humans take a while to warm up to relationships.” 

“Hmm,” he hummed. Leaning towards you, he reached out to brush your cheek. Your eyelashes fluttered, feeling your body ease closer to his. “Regardless, it still seems to be much more acute in humans. In fact, your _every_ response is more acute.” 

“Oh?” You were more struck dumb than playing it cool, as his fingers trailed down your neck to the collar of your painting shirt. 

“Take, for example, what happened in the ruins.” When he said it, the memory was sudden, fresh, and made your skin crackle. “Your effort at restraint was admirable, of course, but it was more than clear that you were battling other… instincts,” Thrawn said as his fingertip traced around your ear. 

“It seemed like a bad place to, um, lose control,” you murmured.

“You have rarely lost composure in my presence, Laureate,” he said, and it sounded like a compliment wrapped around some other, stranger feeling. “For a human, especially one of your emotional intensity, you control yourself rather well. I find myself always wondering what might cause you to let go of that control.”

Those words rang between your ears for a moment, striking as both an exhilarating promise and almost a joke, at least to you. You felt like you were a breath away from losing your composure around Thrawn at all times. It was all you could do to cling desperately to your protocols. Apparently, he had been _enjoying_ watching you try not to swoon.

“I— I don’t want to be disrespectful to you, sir,” you breathed as tingles crawled in ripples over your skin, radiating from his touch. 

“How Chiss-like, the belief that your sincere and unbridled response is disrespectful to me,” he mused, stroking the front of your neck.“Perhaps under certain circumstances that might be considered true. But, what if I _wanted_ to see you without such restraint?”

Heavy eyelids fluttered in front of your vision as he moved closer, sliding fingers beneath your collar. If the man could see infrared, there was no doubt that he could see the pulse of your heart beneath his hand. “Oh…” 

A strong arm wrapped around your waist and drew you in close, his body heat so much higher than a human’s. You were already a little limp, but him taking you in his arms like that rendered you instantly to putty. 

“What might I do to help you let go of it?” he murmured softly against your cheek. 

“T-touch me, sir,” you managed, feeling your inner thighs start to tremble. 

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” you almost whispered. But suddenly you remembered where you were, what you’d just been doing. You tore yourself away from his body. “Wait! The… there’s paint all over my clothes,” you said, nervous that you were already in so much contact with him. “Some of it’s still wet. I wouldn’t want to dirty your uniform.”

His fond little smile— Maker, that’s what it was, _fondness—_ appeared again. “Always so mindful of these little things. How would you suggest that we proceed, then?” 

You blinked at him. “I… I didn’t bring anything to change into.”

“Would you like to return to your quarters to do so?” he asked.

“No,” you replied in a tiny voice. You let your hand stray to your collar, to the highest button you’d closed that day. There was no need to _change_ into anything. Then his massive blue hand wrapped around yours, stalling your progress. 

“Please do not feel obligated, _euhn in'a._ ” His words were gentle, and you held his gaze firmly. 

“I want this,” you said. Again his eyes seemed to blaze just a little, and at that you continued to unbutton your shirt one at a time, letting it fall open as you did. Thrawn’s gaze traveled downward, watching the fabric slip away from your skin as you tugged each sleeve off and at last pulled the entire garment away. It was nerve-wracking to be half nude in front of him, but the way he watched you had the effect of reassuring you, for once. You reached down to unclasp the front of your trousers, letting them fall to the floor once they were undone and pushed over your hips. Your shoes had long since been abandoned by the doorway, of course. 

Stepping out of the puddle of fabric around your feet, you looked back up at the Admiral. He appeared to be taking in every detail he could of your body, not yet closing the gap that had appeared between you.

“You remind me of the old Coruscanti sculptures,” he said. That filled you with a bubble of brightness, brought a shy and elated little smile to your face. 

“That might be the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me,” you murmured, glancing away. His hand reached out to take yours, towing you gently away from the working area to one of the cushioned chairs you’d relocated. Once he sank down into it, he motioned you to join him— and the only place you could sit was on his lap. You went stiff for just a moment, anticipation rattling through your bones. Apparently the Admiral was not getting undressed tonight, and now he wanted you on his lap? Your compliance was a little hesitant, be he moved you easily to sit sidelong with your legs dangling from the knees over one of the stuffed arm rests.

“Are your worries alleviated, now?” he asked, and it took you a moment to realize he was referring to his uniform.

“Yes,” you answered. 

“Then let me touch you, as you requested,” he cooed into your ear, free hand already trailing from your collarbone down over your chest. It took no time at all for your breaths to become labored as he drew electric paths over your body, watching you with his singular focus. You knew he was taking note whenever a touch pulled an extra gasp or soft little sound from you; the faint moan when he touched one of your nipples seemed to please him a great deal. He teased it with soft circles, holding you ever so firmly around the waist as you shifted against him. The throbbing between your legs had reached a level that was starting to become upsetting. At this rate, it wasn’t paint you needed to worry about getting all over his uniform.

“Thrawn,” you whined when his hand drew close to the apex of your thighs, letting your legs sag a little farther apart. 

“Mm, is there something else you’d like me to do?” he hummed, almost smug. 

“Sir, please—” At that moment, his fingers slid around the stiffened nub of your clit, and cut you off with your own whimper. 

“This, perhaps?” 

“Yes!” Your legs opened wider to give him as much room as possible. The red haze of his eyes settled on you intently, watching your chest stutter for breaths and your eyes start to glaze as he stroked you experimentally. When he began to move faster, you moaned and arched your back. 

“So expressive,” he said in that silken purr. “Are you holding back, _euhn in'a?_ ”

“I— I—”

“Because I want to see everything you feel.” He was leaning you back, letting your head rest on the chair’s other arm as he held you there in his iron grip and circled your clit with steadily increasing pressure. You felt your throat unclench around the sounds that wanted to travel through it as you began to moan and your legs started to shake. Part of your brain wondered if you’d have to explain your body to him, but it seemed that he’d either had prior experience or had been thorough in his research— which would be deeply in-character, of course. That thought was drowned in a huge pang of pleasure when his fingers slid down to dip inside you and curl, putting powerful pressure on the spot that always left you quaking. 

“Oh! _Shit!—_ ” The motions of his hand were unhurried but deep, and your entire body clenched around them. You were gasping, moaning, putting your hands up around his neck as he leaned over you. The wet sounds of his movements, the slick of his thumb swiping over your bud had you shaking from deep within.

“There we are,” he said. “Let go for me.”

“I— Thrawn, I’m so close—”

“Say my name again.” It was low, soft, and unmistakably a command. 

“ _Thrawn,_ ” you gasped in ecstatic compliance. His low little growl sent reverberations through your entire body, and when they met with his hand in the heat of your cunt, you shook. Like the stillness before a storm, you froze for an instant before the brunt of your orgasm crashed over you and you clamped down around his fingers, a ragged keen dragging from your mouth and your eyes rolling before squeezing shut. 

“ _Cseo bat,_ ” he crooned as his hand fucked you through your orgasm, dragging out its pangs until you were sure there were none left in your body. Finally he withdrew, and held you close while you drifted down. You panted, trembling, face hot and hands limp around his shoulders as you lolled back on the chair arm. Leaning down close to your face, he pressed his nose into your cheek before moving to place a kiss on your lips that was warm, wet, gentle, and utterly breathtaking in your semi-gelatinous state. 

When you regained muscle control, you pushed yourself upright again so you could lean against his torso, gather his warmth and strength which were so suddenly things you craved. That kiss, the power with which he’d held you while his fingers curled into you… it was intoxicating to feel so tended to. To be here, naked in his lap while he was still utterly dignified in his white uniform, unraveled by his attentions and shielded from the parade of anxieties you’d been dealing with since you’d stepped onto the _Chimaera…_

“Sir?” you whispered at length. 

“Yes?” 

You moved to look up at him, at the planes of his face that you knew so well. “What is that language you’re speaking? It’s beautiful.” 

“That is Cheunh, the Chiss language.” 

“What does… the word you keep calling me mean?” 

A little smile heralded his response. “In Basic, it means _little one._ ”

You felt yourself melt away, the culmination of his power and doting along with the strange and captivating brand of his tenderness all present in that one little diminutive.

“Oh,” you sighed, staring into his red eyes. 

“I hope that is not disagreeable to you,” he said.

“No, not at all,” you assured him. “I… I like it.” 

“Good.” Gathering you up against him, he leaned back into the seat in the first ever relaxed pose you’d seen from him and cradled you in his arms. You smiled a little. You should’ve been cold by now, but his body heat was washing over you and keeping you extremely comfortable. The thought crossed your mind that it would be nice to see the Admiral lose a few layers, too, but maybe this wasn’t the time. You were a little loopy in the aftermath of your orgasm, and there was no doubt in your mind that he’d offer once he felt like it. 

Or, maybe, you might get impatient later, since he enjoyed it so much when you expressed yourself. 

A finger trailed against your cheek, and you scooted up closer so you could put a soft kiss on his jaw. That seemed to inspire him to lift your chin again, and claim your mouth with lush, easy strokes of his tongue. 

_This makes no sense at all,_ you thought. But with his lips tugging on yours and one of his hands stroking your back, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it getting hot in here orr... yeah it is ;)


	15. contour

It was two aching, apparently endless days until you saw Thrawn again. He’d gone down planetside for some reason, leaving you a little listless except for to finish the painting of the figure you’d been working on and try to get to know the facilities on the ship… and think of his hands on your body, of his voice in your ear, of his curiosity and attention whether you were painting or panting under his touch. 

In your pursuit of pastimes, you found a pool of all things in one of the rec areas that the troopers used. It was sectioned off in lanes, and frankly the notion of swimming off some of your mounting sexual frustration seemed extraordinarily appealing. 

So, you ordered a suit with a rash guard from the commissary along with a towel and made your way down to the cavernous hall. A couple of troopers were down at one end, apparently racing each other and not especially interested in you. Slipping into the tepid water at the far side of the pool, you smiled as your body became almost weightless. 

You were far from an accomplished swimmer, but that wasn’t the point. It was pleasant simply to be in the water, to move through it without hurrying. Pools were the only water you were really comfortable swimming in, as natural large bodies of water were all but mythological on Coruscant. Making your way back and forth, you practiced the only two strokes you knew: the arcing wheel of a front crawl, and the same thing only turned onto your back. There was no particular method to the way you swam when fully submerged; you simply made your way forward, or up or down, until you needed a breath. 

As you made your way from the far, deeper end back towards the ladders, you ducked underwater to try wriggling like a fish to your destination. It was slow going, but the buoyancy of your body made it fun, and bubbles full of giggles escaped your nose and mouth. The water made you feel like a kid again, free to splash and move in ways you rarely did. You’d almost forgotten about everything else as you at last reached out to touch the permacrete wall of the shallow end and shot upwards, breaking the water’s surface unobtrusively and wiping droplets away from your eyes. 

You’d almost turned around to start back the other way again when you caught a figure seated on the benches nearby. Red eyes watched you with a familiar, passive interest; when they caught your gaze, he smiled. 

“Oh,” you said, surprised but not at all upset. “Welcome back, Grand Admiral.” 

“Thank you, Laureate,” Thrawn replied, his voice loud enough to be heard despite the constant echo of the humming filters that filled the spacious hall. “I did not realize you were a swimmer.”

“That’s because I’m not, not really,” you laughed. “I’m just doing it because it’s fun, and to let out some pent up energy I had.” 

“Indeed?” A mildly curious glint was in his eye. He rose, and you realized very suddenly that he was not in his uniform. 

He was in a rash guard as well, black with short sleeves and a high neck like yours, clinging to his form for dear life. Beneath that, his shorts came halfway to his knees and they, too, stretched to accommodate his breathtaking thighs. And frankly it was all you could do not to stare at the bulge between his legs as every ounce of 'pent up energy' you’d banished with the help of the water came rushing back to demand its release by much different means. You glanced around the hall, but the troopers who had been there before appeared to have departed. The two of you were quite alone.

_Kriff._

“Yes, sir,” you muttered, nodding.

“And has it been helpful?” 

“Um.” You kept your eyes on his. _Well, it was until about two seconds ago..._ “A little.” 

He was approaching the lane next to yours, descending the ladder into the water with all the ease and grace of his impressive strength. As most of his lower half became obscured, you felt your embarrassment ebb as your wandering eyes were denied their most impolite temptation. 

“I didn’t know you were a swimmer either, sir,” you added to him once some of the blood had drained out of your cheeks. 

“It is most beneficial for maintaining one’s strength in artificial gravity,” he replied. “I hope it’s alright that I’m joining you.”

“Of course, no problem. Just don’t wait on me to finish my lap, or you’ll be stuck for a while.”

Raising an eyebrow by his usual fraction, Thrawn seemed almost amused. Then, without another word, he took to the water and began to move his glorious arms in the same wheel you’d been moving yours, kicking his feet. You blinked, a little astonished at just how quickly he moved. His figure stalled at the far end a mere seven seconds later, and then vanished fully beneath the surface. Just as quickly, his rippling form slid up to the wall you hovered near on the other side of the soft plasteel rope buoyed between you, and he broke the surface with barely a ripple. 

“That’s exactly what I meant,” you said, giggling just a little. “I don’t swim very quickly.”

“It is certainly no competition, Laureate,” he assured you coolly. “Please, carry on with what you were doing.”

And he was off again. You shook your head. “Kriffing hell,” you muttered to yourself. It was mesmerizing to watch him go, honestly, and it took you a moment to start back down towards the deep end yourself at your comparatively glacial pace. 

Every time he passed you, your gaze followed him. Once, you were both underwater at the same time; he sailed by as easily as if he had fins. His eyes caught yours as he went, and you could almost feel them drag down the length of your body as he went along. Your bottoms were decidedly more revealing than his, because that was the only option the commissary had in your size. If it had been slightly irritating before, it suddenly wasn’t any longer.

The next time you went under the surface you veered a little closer to him. Maybe the notion was a little childish, or maybe it was driven by all the ‘energy’ you’d mentioned, but you wanted to reach out and touch him as he went by. That time, you didn’t quite make it close enough. The next time, though, you managed to brush a hand against his leg as he passed while doing a backstroke in the opposite direction. When you broke the surface on the shallow end, you turned to see him watching you from the deep end and almost managed to suppress a coy little grin. You might’ve surprised him, with the way his sidelong look pierced you from under his heavy brow. 

So you ducked under again to undulate along the pool’s bottom until you needed to spring off of it for a breath, not quite at the other end. Thrawn was still there in the direction you were heading, his eyes unwavering. You turned onto your back on the surface and paddled back until your hand landed on the wall, glancing over at him. All the frustration you'd been enduring for two days was filling you with mischief; even as you saw his hand reaching toward you, you ducked underwater and launched yourself off from the wall with your feet.

You’d fully expected to see his body go flying past to beat you to the other side, uncertain of what his response would be but more than willing to find out. Instead, what you felt was an arm that came up from behind to wrap around your waist with thrilling firmness, and the Admiral’s body slide up beside you. For a moment, his face hovered just in front of yours. 

Then his legs began to move, and he towed you with him back up. You gasped as your heads emerged, heart thudding with the sudden and exciting speed at which you’d been going even with him pulling your weight alongside his own. His feet appeared to touch the bottom here, not quite at the shallowest part, and his other arm slipped behind your knees as though to carry you. 

But he pulled you close, pressed up against his body that was even warm underwater. Your hand was against his upper chest, sliding up around his neck as the two of you half-floated in the strange ungravity of the pool. 

“Are you trying to tease me, _euhn in'a?_ ” he asked in a low voice that was only audible in the omnipresent hum because his face was barely three inches from yours. 

“Maybe,” you replied, moving to nuzzle against his cheek. You got close enough to feel a droplet leave the tip of his aquiline nose and run down yours before he leaned just enough away to deny you the contact. He looked down at you, and his expression was unreadable as it so often was. 

“And why is that?”

“I just…” You glanced away a little bashfully. “Wanted your attention, I guess.”

When his mouth quirked into his suggestion of a smile, it filled you with gooey validation. The typical level of opacity you associated with him meant that you tested these things as you went along, with no real knowledge of where the boundaries truly lie. Yet his utter and unyielding poise assured you that you would be told very plainly when you’d found one; it also meant that his enjoyment of such behavior was priceless in a way.

“So openly?” he asked.

“Nobody else is here.”

“Not presently, no.” He lifted a brow a little more plainly than he usually did. “But a trooper, or another officer even, might arrive at any given moment. Did this slip your mind, or was it perhaps exciting to you?” 

You felt your face flush. “Um, I didn’t honestly think about it, sir. It might be exciting, except that I wouldn’t want it to cause you any trouble if we were seen.” That was genuine; even as heat rushed between your legs at the possibility of being caught, the actuality of it filled you with anxiety. You had no notion of just how much against what rules such a tryst even was, and up until now Thrawn had been plain enough in his desire for discretion. 

“So impulsive,” he tutted as the two of you drifted around in the middle depths of the lane, you still cradled in his arms. His face hovered near yours now, so close you could feel his breath on your cheek as he issued the impression of a reprimand that sent a pang through your body. 

“But sir,” you said, letting the hand you’d wrapped around his neck trail at its nape on the off chance that this had an effect on Chiss bodily responses, “you’re still holding me. Either you like my impulses, or you predicted them and compensated for them. Otherwise, wouldn’t you still be at a respectable distance?”

“I did take the liberty of closing this particular swimming hall when I learned of your location upon my return to the ship.” 

“Oh, so you simply presented me with an opportunity to be impulsive?”

“Perhaps.” 

You smirked— there was no ‘perhaps’ about it, in your mind. There was nothing about Thrawn that was not calculated. The fact that he’d calculated a way for you to act on whatever desire arose for you while the two of you were alone in the pool was exhilarating. Before you could respond, though, he finally stole your lips in a kiss that brought the slightly metallic taste of the pool water still on your faces into the flavor of his warm, sweet mouth. From the dead center of your chest, you felt a vibration start to echo out through your body.

A soft bump on your shoulder meant that you’d found the long wall of the pool, and he released your knees from his grasp to let your legs float out into the water. You were so ensnared in the languid strokes of his tongue, the soft tug of his teeth on your bottom lip, that you didn’t register precisely how he got your back against the permacrete and his body in front of you. What you did register was the sensation of his hands as one made its way under the water to the apex of your thighs, running against your slit and over your already stiff clit through the clingy fabric of your swimsuit bottoms. 

You tried to moan, but the sound was trapped between your mouths. This didn’t seem to bother Thrawn as he started to slowly drag his fingertips up and over it again, and then again, setting a tortuous pace under the surface of the water. Every time he passed over the bundle of nerves, your hips jerked involuntarily.

“Curious that you chose to tease,” he said in a low voice when he pulled away, and you felt a huge, warm hand sliding up your neck to grip your jaw gently. You were pinned to the pool’s edge now, only your head and the tops of your shoulders above the surface of the water as he worked at you below it. “But then, perhaps I should expect an obstinate streak from an artist.” 

“S-sir—”

“Shh,” he hushed you quietly, pressing his lips just barely against yours, then moving down towards your chin and onto your neck. “It’s much too early for your protests, Laureate.”

The powerful thrill that those titillating, ever so promising words sent through you had your insides clamping down over nothing. Your little murmurs and gasps became more acute as his mouth trailed down to your collarbone and he paused to take in a long, slow, impossibly deep breath. 

Then his head vanished, and your heart stuttered as you felt his hand leave its post to push one leg away from the other. The other hand that was on your jaw loosened and began to slip down, making its new home on your solar plexus as it pressed you gingerly into the wall. 

At last his nose and mouth nuzzled against your cunt. You whimpered, gripping the edge of the pool with one hand as the other clamped down over his. With the veil of your swimsuit between your flesh, the sensations were just muted enough to drive you crazy and yet still build the pressure inside you at a ruinously slow pace. You wondered if he could hear your groans and swears from under the water as you tried not to wriggle too vigorously. 

When he finally slid back up your torso and replaced his hand between your legs, you tried to buck against it in your hunger for more pressure. At this rate, you’d never get release. Thrawn simply watched you writhe and whimper with keen interest, eyes holding yours.

“Pl-please, sir,” you finally mewled. “I— I—”

“What, sweet thing?” he asked, voice impossibly calm. “Am I not paying enough attention to you?” 

“N-no sir, it’s not—”

“Do I neglect you?”

“No!”

“What would you like, then?” The way his eyes were burning, you could sense just how much he was enjoying this. 

“I— I can’t feel you enough, sir,” you bleated. 

“Enough?” 

“Yes, sir—”

Suddenly his knee was coming up between your legs, pressed into your groin as his hand drew away to hold your hip. The change of pressure was sudden and dramatic, and he slowly moved his hard-muscled thigh up and down against you as you shuddered violently. 

“Is that better?” he crooned. You were already moving as much as you could against him, seeking what the frictionless fabric of your suit denied you. 

“Y-yes— yes sir—”

“Be still,” he commanded; you complied even as your legs shook and your whole body protested. You couldn’t stop an agonized little groan despite the achingly slow slide of his leg over you, little bolts of lightning crawling out to your edges from your amazingly stiff clit. “Would you like to retire to a more comfortable location? Or, perhaps you cannot wait, and you’d rather fuck yourself right here on my knee?”

The unexpectedly _lewd_ language in Thrawn’s gentle voice had your thighs clamping around his. “Can’t I have both, sir?” you asked, eyes heavy with desire. His phantom smirk appeared.

“Perhaps.” 

You leaned forward, pressing your cunt against him at the perfect angle before the native rhythm of your hips began to find itself. Slipping your hands around his neck, your breaths started to come in hard and heavy as the electric coil within you was finally allowed to tighten. He gripped your waist and hips loosely, head bent to watch you move. 

“Oh, sir,” you gasped, already so close after all of his teasing, “please, let me fuck you like this one day.” 

You could almost see the red glow of his eyes brighten, even as you struggled to focus your sight on anything at all. “Patience, _euhn in'a,_ ” he murmured into your ear, and the plume of his breath against the sensitive skin there kicked you even closer to the edge. Your motions became almost frantic, the pitch of your moans growing higher in desperation as you dug your fingers into his wet hair and ground your cunt harder against him.

“Ahh— _haaa—_ ”

“That’s it,” he cooed. And with that, you tripped over the finish line and burst into your climax, fireworks unleashed in your low belly as your rhythm stuttered. His hands were on your hips, pushing you down to guide your shuddering body against his thigh as your muscles spasmed and your cries echoed off the high walls. Gasping, you pushed yourself to grind through it until at last your resolve collapsed into release and your body fell limp in his arms. 

It took you a moment to realize that you were moving. Thrawn had slipped his knee down to draw you away from the wall, reaching under your knees once again to carry you towards the shallow end. Eventually you felt the drag of the water as he rose, and finally he was really bearing your weight as he stood next to the ladder and looked down at you. 

“Are you ready to walk?” he asked, and the question was so quiet and gentle that your heart swam in your chest, enraptured.

“I think so.” Gingerly, not letting go until he felt your muscles begin to accept their responsibility to your bones, he hoisted you up so you could use the top step of the ladder to haul yourself out of the pool. He followed close behind, nudging your low back gently to guide you over to the bench so he could hand you a towel. For a moment all you did was watch his magnificent body, partially sheathed in its cursory black swimwear, as he began to dry himself and read something that appeared on the datapad that he’d left there. When he finished, he turned towards you.

“Unfortunately, it seems I’ll be returning to planetside by 0600 tomorrow morning. I must continue to revise my diplomatic strategy for some time before that. I do not have time to spend with you as you deserve,” he said with actual, detectable regret in his voice. It was almost enough to offset the way your heart sank, to hear him so clearly feel something. Almost.

“Can I just stay with you while you work?” you asked in a small voice. The flood of chemicals in your brain was making it difficult to accept the possibility that he might not be near you after what had just happened. 

“You need to sleep,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“I can sleep while you’re working.”

“I will be unable to be attentive to you.”

“I know. That’s okay.”

“Not long ago that seemed to be less than satisfactory,” he pointed out. You could’ve sworn he was making fun of you.

“Yeah, well, I got enough to tide me over,” you muttered, smiling a little in spite of yourself. But your face fell back to imploring just as quickly. “I just want to be near you before you go.”

He stepped towards you, reaching to stroke your face as he paused and seemed to turn this idea over in his ineffable mind. “Alright,” he said at last. “If you’d like to return to your quarters to change, I shall do the same. Ring my comm before you come to join me.”

Nodding, you brightened visibly. “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn is finna make the artist *keep on waiting*  
> but at least they won't be that mad about it uwu


	16. technique

When you arrived at Thrawn’s quarters, you were freshly showered and wearing soft, comfortable things. The post-orgasmic glow was in your cheeks, making you wonder if you’d sleep at all with your heart so flooded. Just in case, you’d brought your datapad, which had enough books on it that you could keep yourself out of the Admiral’s hair in the event that you weren’t tired before 0600. 

The door slid open, and you saw him pacing, albeit at a subdued speed, from his bed to the transparisteel viewport wall and back again with a datapad in his hand. He was wearing clean white uniform trousers with a white undershirt tucked into them. You smiled to yourself; it seemed a minor miracle that the man wasn’t in full dress with his rank badge on. And, perhaps, a sign of intimacy of another sort between you.

At your quiet approach, he paused, though his eyes were still on the datapad for a moment. But he held his hand out towards you without looking, so you slipped between it and his body to wrap your arms around his waist. His red eyes flicked across the text on the datapad rapidly, hand resting easily on your hip. 

“I find myself in a curious position, Laureate,” he said after a moment, finally letting the pad drop away and turning towards you. “I am tasked with securing trade with Unagin, since Governor Tairos cannot seem to strike up an accord with the locals.”

“Isn’t that a little below your pay grade, sir?” you asked, brow furrowing. A flicker of amusement moved across his blue face.

“Perhaps, but I am not here only for that purpose. There is a greater trouble connecting several outer rim planets in a recent rash of unrest, particularly in this section often called the Slice.”

“We’re in the Outer Rim inside the Slice? Isn’t that close to Hutt Space?” You glanced out of the viewport, but only saw a distant little spud of a moon hanging half-lit in the star-pricked darkness. The planet you were orbiting must have been on the other side of the ship. 

“Some of it is close to Hutt Space, yes. In fact, Unagin is just outside it.”

“Oh. Well that might have something to do with the unrest, I guess,” you muttered, remembering all the stories you’d ever heard about Hutts.

“Usually it does, and that is Governor Tairos’ belief as well. But I do not think we have the usual criminal activity to blame for this. I believe it is a systematic series of minor ground incursions that are leaving civil unrest in their wake, spanning several of the worlds along this part of the Outer Rim and disrupting certain trades. Both the reports of violence and the materials are meant to appear random.” 

“But they’re not?” You looked up at him, and an intense look of concentration was on his face. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head despite the fact that, compared to a human deep in thought, he looked like a stone statue. 

“I suspected not, and what I have just learned on Unagin has confirmed it. You may find it curious to learn that one of the trades being interrupted is art and artifacts,” he said, holding the datapad towards you. You unwound one arm from his warm, firm body to take it and scan the text.

“‘Miscellaneous ancient artistic traditions with origins along the Outer Rim’?” you read from the article, frowning. “That’s vague. There are a hell of a lot of planets in the Outer Rim.”

“The disruptions have primarily affected trade of Twi’lek, Pau’an, and Hutt art,” Thrawn explained. “Though, of course, there are others as well.”

“Okay… they did not teach us anything about Hutt _art_ in school,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “They just said that since there’s a massive black market for art and a problem with replicas, that the Hutts inevitably end up moving stolen works from across the known galaxy.”

“Including their own historical pieces, sometimes stolen from each other. But, that appears to be an ancient tradition among the Hutt families, not enough to cause uproar on its own. An outsider moving Hutt classical pieces, or stealing them from one of the crime lords, however, appears to upset them greatly.”

“I’d imagine so. Most of these trades upset the people the art belonged to in the first place, legitimate or not,” you pointed out, feeling yourself bristle a little. As much as you loved learning about art from all over the galaxy, the thought of stealing it from its home was abhorrent. It was one thing if it was so ancient that the beings who had made it had since died out, but another to parade ancient cultural artifacts around and transform them into very expensive wall decor. That was what purchasing from living artists was for. 

“That is precisely what I thought when the unrest began,” Thrawn said. “But it was even more interesting when reports indicated that there were other materials being disrupted, and the vast majority of those who took issue with such happenings inhabited planets that were known for a rather isolationist approach to intergalactic politics.” 

“Oh, so they think that the Empire is meddling in their trades now?” 

“Yes.”

“Well?” you asked, raising a brow. “ _Is_ the Empire meddling in their trades?”

“We have no reason to cause any major changes in the flow of these particular materials. In fact, the Empire stands only to benefit from the healthy circulation of exports. Ancient art being the only one that might stand as an exception to that rule— not because art is of exceptional value to the Empire, of course. Rather the opposite.” 

“If the Empire doesn’t really operate within the art trade, then it would be individual officials meddling in it for their own reasons, I guess.” It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard your fair share of stories about the petty dealings of moffs and governors when it came to dabbling in art to pocket credits— or prestige. You wondered why Thrawn was running through this with you, as though you could offer even a paltry glimmer of insight for such a tactical genius. Maybe it just helped him think. 

“Yes,” he replied. “These incursions have multiple methods to reach one purpose.”

“To incite rebellion?” you asked, though it seemed obvious enough.

“Of course. But not just by attempting to rally historically malcontent worlds, this time.” He was giving you a look that was one part his ghost-smile, one part expectation. You blinked back at him for a moment, trying to connect all the dots and remember even one useful thing from the history classes you’d taken that weren’t explicitly focused on art.

“Oh,” you said as it dawned on you— Hutts were never not making trouble for everyone else, Ryloth was famously fierce in its pursuit of independence, but Utapau had been coerced by the Separatists when it had wanted to remain free of any war. “Previously neutral systems under Imperial rule who never contributed actively during the Clone Wars are a lot less likely to join a rebellion if they have no specific reason to do so. But art is a very important cultural cornerstone, so its loss would feel personal. Blame it on the Empire, or even just a corrupt Imperial, and you create a potential new ally.”

“Precisely,” Thrawn said, apparently rather pleased as he took the datapad from your hand to slip it onto the nearby desk. 

“That’s… a cruel way to try and get someone to join your cause,” you said, face falling. 

Somewhere deep in your secret heart, you’d always sympathized with rebels. Coruscant was the crown jewel of the Empire, and even the citizens on its lower levels had to claw a life from its broken system. The farther you went from such an epicenter, the more bleak the possibilities seemed to get, even if some necessary goods and services like medicine were more widely available across the galaxy because of Imperial reach. But to wound a people by stealing a piece of their history, a part of their spiritual beliefs or ancestral wisdom…

“Yes, quite unlike the usual operations of rebels. Making it more difficult to discern their strategy, as we may possibly be dealing with a splinter cell,” he murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. 

“I know predicting their next move is helpful,” you said, “but it might also be good to just… I dunno, offset the collateral damage somehow. Return their pieces to them, adjust their supply chains, offer relief, fire a few officials who aren’t doing their jobs anyway. Make it look like an aberration, rather than standard protocol.” 

“Yes, the trouble with that approach is that I need the governors to agree to it because I cannot singlehandedly retrieve each stolen work, I am afraid.” You stifled a chuckle; if anybody could accomplish such a feat, it was Thrawn. But, he was far too intelligent to make it his first option, of course. He’d probably already pondered every possible option already, you thought, but you continued your line of inquiry anyway.

“The governors are addressing their supply chains, right?”

“Only insofar as it affects the operations they’re responsible for.”

“You could incentivize them to correct the others,” you mused. “Give them a bonus, or something.”

“Their pay is tragically not under my jurisdiction.”

“Well, whose is it under? And doesn’t the Emperor like you, or something? Can’t you bend his ear?” 

The way Thrawn turned to look back down at you, after a pause and with incredibly controlled movements, at first you thought you’d spoken out of turn. But then you saw the fond expression you’d seen once or twice before, a highly reserved imprint of human affection. “It is not so easy to bend the Emperor’s ear, Laureate, and this trouble would have to be much larger in scope before I would presume to present it to him. That said, you have reminded me that it is Grand Moff Tarkin who might be best able to assist me in incentivizing countermeasures.”

You blinked. “I have? Oh, good.”

“You have also, in doing so, created a much clearer path by which I may strategize further negotiations tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to be of service, sir,” you said with a chuckle. A warm blue hand rose to your chin to tilt it upwards, catching you in the tangle of his red eyes. 

“Perhaps I might be more attentive to you this evening than I anticipated,” he purred, instantly melting your insides. You just barely hung onto the train of thought that had popped into your head about how maybe it wasn’t so easy to bend Tarkin’s ear, either, and there must be a dozen other factors you didn’t know about for Thrawn to account for, and really you couldn’t have been all _that_ helpful, could you? Shouldn’t you just banish yourself to a chair and read while he kept pacing and being a tactical genius? 

“Oh, sir, I…” But the way his other hand slid around your waist and his face hovered by yours drained you of anything resembling a thought for a moment. 

“Forgive me for finding your distress in the swimming hall so intoxicating.” His breath was in your mouth, his smell and the threat of a growl hidden deep at the bottom of his soft voice filling your other senses as your eyes slid almost shut with heady anticipation. “It was perhaps a little… retaliative of me.”

“For teasing you?” you asked, feeling his hand slip beneath the back hem of your shirt to press its heat into the skin of your back. 

“Yes. I anticipated the possibility, but I may have indulged my response a bit too much.”

“No, sir,” you breathed. “It’s… a good response to indulge.”

“Not if I cannot be certain to take the time to spoil you afterwards, _euhn in'a._ ”

Your breaths rattled around the implications of such a statement, and your knees wavered as he started to step forward, causing you to have to step back as he held you against him. If you had retained the power of thought when he wrapped around you like this, you would have been making a massive list of ways to tease him just to _ensure_ his retaliation. As it was, you couldn’t even formulate a coherent response to him as he maneuvered you into sitting on the foot of his bed. Nestling himself between your legs in a way that made your whole body shudder, he leaned forward to lay you down on your back. Instinctively you tilted your sacrum to press against his hips, feeling a surprisingly firm bulge there. Not the bulge of a human with an erection, but rather like the entire area between his legs was wrapped in powerful muscle and who knew what other sorts of tissue.

It instantly excited and fascinated you, but all you could do was grind yourself against him and take his face in your hands, tugging it the final inch or so closer so you could lure him into a kiss. You had a distinct feeling that he allowed this, that he thought your enthusiasm was endearing at that moment. His hands continued to run over your body beneath the shirt. They stopped more than once to pull a sharp little mewl from a swift tweak of your nipple, like punctuation for the rambling, indulgent sentences his fingers were tracing on your skin. 

“Thrawn,” you murmured against his mouth, giving your hips a slow roll to drive home your point, “I want you to fuck me…”

His hands paused, gripping you around your waist with just enough pressure to make you feel as though he wanted badly to oblige despite his withholding. “Now, _euhn in'a,_ you mustn’t be hasty.”

You pulled away enough to pout at him. “Why not?” 

“Because you are human, and I am Chiss. Our bodies may require some… adjusting to each other.” 

“Tell me how,” you urged him quietly. “Please, sir, I want to know how to please you.”

“So sweet,” he cooed, pushing your soft shirt up your torso with aching slowness. “But it is not always easy for me to control my sexual response. I would not allow myself to do harm to you by rushing the process.”

That was the most amazingly thrilling thing he could possibly have said. The idea of Thrawn losing control for any reason was so extraordinarily novel, but because of you? _Sexually?_ The same impish little hunger you’d felt once before at the notion that he might swoon over you echoed through your body in spite of his apparent concerns. 

“Can I at least— _oh!_ ” As you moved your arms to let him remove your upper garment, Thrawn ducked his head to wrap one of your nipples in his lusciously warm mouth. His red eyes stared up at you under a focused brow for just a moment, and your mind’s eye flashed an image of that same relentless stare aimed up at you from a slightly lower vantage point…

“I’m sorry, what was it you were about to say?” he asked after you squirmed and panted against him just a little. 

“I just want to touch you, sir,” you breathed as his hands made their way to the top of your pants to tug at the waistband. “Your skin is so beautiful…”

He took less time removing the lower garment, then stood back to gaze at your body where you laid back on the bed as though he were looking over an intricate tapestry, or studying a starmap. A nearly soft look was on his face, and when his gaze met yours again he leaned forward to stroke your face. 

“How could I deny such a lovely creature as you?” 

Your heart turned to warm goo in your chest. “May I take off your shirt, sir? Please?”

At that, he stood back up again. “Yes, you may.” 

Rising from your supine position, you sat once more on the edge of the bed and leaned into his torso, nuzzling just above where his undershirt vanished into his uniform trousers. You took in a deep breath, filling your head with his smell as you began to tug the edges of the shirt free. He stood like a statue, looking down at you while you slid your fingers beneath the white fabric and ran them over the ripples of his abdominal muscles. Taking your time, you pushed the garment up until you could reach no further. He made no movement to assist you, so you shifted around and onto your knees so you could raise up a little higher, drag the obstructive shirt away. 

You’d thought to touch and tease him as you went, but ultimately the more of his gorgeous blue body you revealed, the more you wanted to stare at it until its image was forever emblazoned upon your memory. He helped you shuck the sleeves fully, and lowered his arms as you watched each muscle assist his movements. Reaching out with shaky hands, you began to map the surface of his upper chest and shoulders. It wasn’t just that he was inanely attractive that made you so fixated. It was the long, slow agony of arriving at this point, of being able to at last look openly on the vulnerable flesh of such a powerful, unavailable man. A man you’d spent weeks telling yourself you would never so much as glimpse again once his portrait was finished, who wouldn’t find you at all more interesting than he did any other passing curiosity. 

With careful veneration you traced muscle groups, felt the valleys between them, passed fingertips over his dark blue nipples (to no evident response) and spread your palms over his pectorals. Leaning forward at last, you pressed your nose and cheek against him and flushed your skin with his warmth. 

“Thank you, sir,” you sighed. 

Instead of responding, Thrawn took your face in his hands and turned it up so he could kiss you with surprising tenderness. You weren’t sure, but some instinct told you that he was more affected than he let on by being so adored. 

His tongue was moving against yours in languid strokes, pulling bolts of electricity from your cunt with each one. Suddenly he moved you back down onto your seat on the bed, then pushed you backwards to not just lie back but stretch out across the mattress with your legs on either side of his body. You heard his knees hit the bed, and he crawled up and over you before breaking the kiss and running his nose down your neck. 

For the first time, even though he was paced and intentional as always, you felt this whisper of urgency beneath his movements. It seemed to increase ever so subtly as he continued down over your chest and past your belly button; your guts wound tighter and tighter until he arrived just at the apex of your thighs.

His hands were on your hips, but they drifted down and around your legs until they were wrapped around the backs of your thighs. You sucked in a deep breath as he slowly spread them apart and splayed them upwards, opening you like a flower to the sun. 

It was amazing just how still he was for a moment, poised there with his nose just barely pressing into the soft, delicate skin between your thigh and cunt. The slow, long breath he took was very nearly the most lewd thing you’d ever witnessed him do; you wondered if this was a moment of self-control, of containing some of his less manageable desires. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched with a drumming heart as he moved finally to let his warm breath envelop your most sensitive parts. 

Before he did anything else, his eyes flickered up at you and locked onto your face with the most openly predacious look you’d ever seen on him. It seemed to delight him that your breath hitched in your throat, your mouth fell slack, and your eyelids fluttered in anticipation. Without looking away from you, he lowered his mouth fully over you and laid his tongue flat over your entrance before swiping it up to your pert, blushing clit. 

“ _Ooh,_ ” you mewled softly, staring. As he continued to move his tongue and lips around and test each motion against your response, you tried to let yourself react as naturally as you could. Clamming up in the bone shell of composure and professionalism wasn’t what he wanted when you were like this, and frankly it wasn’t what you wanted either. You wanted to unlearn your timidity around him, to embrace the ways he empowered you to give up pretending you didn’t want or enjoy something. 

“Kriff!” you exclaimed quietly when he suckled your rapidly peaking clit. “Oh— sir—”

“Mmm,” he hummed against you, causing the muscles of your inner thighs to shake. He was thorough, intent, and his tongue was swiping in shapes that left you a little dizzy in the trails of their crackling effects on your nervous system. The breaths you were taking flooded with soft little moans, and a louder one leapt out when you felt two of his fingers start to circle your entrance slowly. 

“Oh, Maker, _please,_ ” you said between gasps. “Sir—!”

“Yes?” Thrawn cooed against your cunt, eyes never once leaving your face. 

“Your— your fingers—” 

The tip of one slipped inside you by a hatefully small margin, and you whimpered. 

“Yes, Laureate?”

“I-I need them—!” 

“Demanding, aren’t you?” 

“Sir, please, _please_ fuck me with your fingers—”

“Hmm.” It slipped in a little more, running rings around your walls. The pathetic sound you made brought one of those flashes from his red eyes. As if that weren’t unbearable enough, his tongue started to flicker around your clit again while his hand carried on its taunting dance just barely inside you. 

“ _Siiiiir,_ ” you groaned, wriggling your hips desperately. You looked into his eyes, a sort of silent begging you hoped might inspire him to have mercy on you. If it was a response that he wanted from you, he was certainly going about it the right way.

Suddenly he switched from reaming your hungry, clenching entrance to slipping two fingers in barely past the first knuckle, then drawing them out, then pushing them in again, never going deeper than an inch or so. You sputtered, hips bucking, and his one hand that was still on your thigh clamped down to hold you still. 

“Fuuu-u- _uck me,_ ” you sobbed, throwing your head back and clawing the comforter in your hands as he sucked your heartbeat out through your nub, tongue swiping urgently, fingers still just barely fucking you. “Thrawn! _Please!_ ”

You almost felt him smile as the wet sounds of your starving cunt finally got louder and a wave of intense pleasure rolled through your body upon him pressing his fingers up inside you, curling them against your inner walls repeatedly. 

“Yes!” you yelped, looking back down and watching the light play on his blue shoulders as one arm worked you mercilessly and the other held you down. A few strands of his hair had come loose, hanging down in front of those impossible red eyes. Your mouth hung open, gasping, eyes watering as he pushed you right up to the precipice of release. 

The way his fingers switched from slower, deeper movements to a high-pressure, rapid dig was what did it; you froze as your orgasm ballooned and howled when it burst. Heat screamed through your nerves from center all the way to fingers and curling toes, and the pressure of your body rivaled that of Thrawn’s fingers as they fought to keep you going. 

Your howl caught on ragged bursts of pleasure, burbling and keening as you throbbed in his mouth and your eyes unfocused and rolled away to look into some unknowable place. Sagging back onto the bed, your legs shook violently with the plumes of electricity he was still milking from your shattering body. Shoving your fingers into your mouth, you bit back a scream. There was no thought in your head to wonder how he did it, how you were still coming when you already jerked and spasmed from your core. But you did, and there were no thoughts that complained about it, either. 

At last he slowed, though he didn’t stop just yet. It was a slow, winding descent as he went from ruination to soft, gentle laps of his tongue that jolted through you and a slow, easy massage of your inner walls that went from overwhelming to strangely relaxing as they settled. You were lost to the cloud of your climax, so much so that you barely noticed him finally withdrawing from your cunt to gently lower your legs and slide up beside you. Warm arms drew you up against him, held your limp body as though it were spun glass. You could almost see him, but your eyes were unfocused. A thumb stroked your temple softly. 

“Incredible,” he murmured at length. 

“Hm?” It was a question, the only one you could have asked at that moment. 

“Human neurology is singular, from what I have learned. But my studies did not prepare me for the way you… unravel, like this.” 

You still couldn’t see properly, so you just haphazardly tried to push your face against the hand that was touching it as your eyelids drifted shut. “Hmm.” 

“You cannot even speak,” he said, the soft and even lilt of his voice like velvet in your ears. The captivated surprise in his voice was minute, but you heard it like bells ringing. Humming contentedly, you nestled closer to him. He ran his fingers over the back of your head, and you could almost feel that he was still looking down at you at whatever he saw from his present angle. 

At some point, you must have fallen asleep, because you woke up to the sensation of Thrawn moving you gently up to lay your head on the pillows. Then, the warmth of his body vanished for a moment. It was replaced shortly, though, when he slid back onto the bed to lounge with his shoulders against the headboard. His shirt was back on, you realized dully, but you didn’t care. Putting your head on his chest and wrapping an arm around his torso, you made yourself comfortable. One arm wrapped around you in return; the other was holding his datapad as he looked at it again. 

Turning to blink up at him, you felt sleep trying to drag your eyes shut. But you wanted to see his face once more before you drifted off. He looked down at you, faint smile on his lips. 

“Sleep, _euhn in'a,_ ” he urged you softly, and it was all you needed to shift back into your first position and sink into his body, his amazingly calm presence like a blanket over you. Just before you were finally lost to sleep’s gauzy curtain, you felt him place a kiss on the top of your head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which Thrawn is almost as big of a tease as i am uwu  
> and the artist is pretty smart, too! i may or may not be borrowing some events from another Thrawn fic i'm slowly building up... technically i don't know if it will *actually* be in the same universe as this one but i figured hey, why not?


	17. complimentary

By dinnertime the day after your poolside indiscretion with Thrawn, he was still planetside and you were wondering if the idea you’d apparently unwittingly bestowed upon him was as good as he’d made it sound like. What if something had in fact gone horribly wrong, or was about to? What if the Grand Moff didn’t give half a hot bantha shit about Thrawn’s notions of a rebel splinter cell, and his help wasn’t actually on the table after all? What if this Governor, whoever he was, kriffed it all up anyway? 

But, who were you kidding? This was Thrawn. He was Grand Admiral for a reason, and you weren’t exactly a battle strategist. Hell, you didn’t even play djarik well. Sabacc was a better bet, if only because your ability to read faces was pretty damn honed after your years of portraiture. Spotting if someone was bluffing was easier than trying to think thirty moves ahead any day of the week. 

You sat at your table inside the officer’s mess, not sure why you’d elected to take your dinner there in the first place. You’d been there once or twice with Vanto, at his insistence, and Thrawn had joined the two of you once and brought Commodore Faro with him. She seemed to be one of the slightly superstitious Navy personnel Vanto had cautioned you about; without being rude, she’d managed to ignore or divert away from almost everything you said. So either she didn’t think you should be there, or she was very distracted by something else. 

Maybe it was the forlorn isolation you felt in your barren room once you’d left Thrawn’s quarters, after waking up alone in a bed that smelled like him and surrounded by a garden of paintings as well as your own easel. Going back to the reality of your guest suite had been a little disappointing. Paired with not knowing when he would return and being unable to work on the portrait until he did, it was downright boring. You’d been trying to sketch all day to no avail. And you had nobody else on the ship to speak to but Thrawn and Vanto, both of whom were busy attending to their duties.

So maybe you were here on a whim, wondering if you might strike up a conversation or at least notice something interesting, be struck by the sudden and ineffable bolt of inspiration. You were pushing food around on your plate, trying to sculpt a little edible landscape from the half-consumed remnants of your dinner. Trying not to fret about Thrawn, because it just seemed so absurd. Failing at both.

“Well, nice to see you here, Laureate,” came a familiar voice with a Wild Space accent. You looked up to see Eli with a tray of his own, sauntering towards you. 

“Hello, Commander,” you replied with a smile that was weighted by your boredom and anxiety. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

“No, not at all.” 

Vanto took a seat, settling in with his fork in-hand. Looking at you from under his flop of brown hair, he raised an eyebrow before bending a little more over his plate. “You seem a little stressed.”

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, frowning. 

“Well… yeah,” he replied with a shrug. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I just… can’t work while the Grand Admiral is away.” You quirked your lips a little, looking back down at the mess of food on your plate. “My personal work is stalled at the moment. I get a little bored here, honestly. And I worry.” 

“You worry about Thrawn?” This seemed to amuse him. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you muttered. 

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Vanto said, his face softening. “It’s sweet that you do. If I’m really honest… I do too.” 

Freezing a little in your movements, you looked back up at him. “You do?” 

“I mean, the man can handle himself, sure. But he’s so unpredictable at times, and it throws people off. Some people just don’t react to being thrown off well. But I’ve seen him make his way through those situations, too. Still, the fact that there’s a local governor involved in these negotiations is just an opportunity for him to take offense at something Thrawn says in passing.” You watched as Vanto pushed his own food around on the plate for a moment. “Honestly, we do better by ourselves on most missions, if we can afford to be.” 

“Because none of the other admirals are like him, are they?” The way you looked at him as you spoke was supposed to be impersonal and observant, but fondness and even a drop of awe made its way into your countenance regardless. You felt it like a warm sun in the middle of your chest. 

“They most certainly aren’t.” Now, Vanto was smiling at you with a shade of that delight you’d seen down on Iridonia on his face. 

“I can tell, just from having painted them,” you murmured, glancing away from the bright-eyed Commander. “And this ship… nobody here seems anxious when he’s around.”

“Not even you,” he added, and his smile was knowing. 

“I guess not.” You chewed your lip and tapped the end of your fork very lightly on your plate. _He’s figured it out, hasn’t he? We haven’t even been together in front of him much since Iridonia and he can already tell._ “I mean, he’s very courteous. I do appreciate both of you trying so hard to put me at ease after I arrived here.”

“You were nervous around him before you boarded the _Chimaera,_ though,” Vanto pointed out. “That time I sat in on your session, you seemed anxious to say much about him or the other officers. Now, not so much, not even as soon as you arrived here.”

“Well, he’s a little imposing, you gotta admit,” you tried. “It took me a minute to adjust.”

“Sure, but you’re not a coward.”

“I…” It was a little odd that the Commander was commenting on your bravery, wasn’t it? And how did he know? It wasn’t like he’d ever watched you react to having a blaster pointed at you before. _Though,_ you mused, _he might not expect what he saw if he did._ “I like to think I’m not, I guess, yeah. But as my client, he could have me canned so easily.”

“Oh, I think you and I both know he wouldn’t. He loves art too much.” Now he was actually chuckling. “And by extension, I think he respects any artist at least for making art.”

“Yeah, I could see that.” Your face was warming a little, every compliment Thrawn had ever graced you with running through your mind. About your work, your personality, your body, the sounds you made when he was touching you…

“He finally did it, didn’t he?” Vanto said, interrupting your increasingly lewd train of thought in a very low voice with an impish grin on his face.

“Did what?” you asked, freezing again. 

“He kissed you!” 

“What?” You were shocked to say the least, eyes flying open and blinking rapidly at him. “Wh— no, I mean— he— I would never—”

“You are so precious, hun,” Vanto said, the most Wild Space-ish thing you’d ever heard depart his lips. “But you don’t have to play pretend with me. I’ve been nudging him for ages, thought he’d never get around to it.”

Now you were actually speechless, no partial sentences, words, or even sounds exiting your open mouth. Commander Vanto had been _what_ now?

“Laureate,” he said, waving his fork in your face. “You in there?” 

“I’m— you’re shitting me, right?” Finally your thoughts broke free of your shock, and of course there would be a swear in there with them. Luckily, you’d kept your voice quiet, in spite of wanting to shout just a little.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he assured you, now waving his empty hand. “Listen, I know you’ve been suspicious of us for a while, too. But we’re not exclusive, and I don’t get the chance to tease Thrawn about liking someone much. So this has been kind of a treat for me.”

If he wanted you to be _less_ flabbergasted, he certainly wasn’t going about it the right way at all. You weren’t sure which was more appalling, the fact that you’d been right about suspecting their involvement based on what were arguably very few and _very_ mild hints, or that he was just having out with it right here in your little corner of the officer’s mess.

“I— Commander,” you started, shutting your eyes for a moment. “I really need you to slow the kriff down for a minute. You mean that you and he are…” Wary of the other officers in the hall despite the fact that none of them were especially nearby, you tilted your head and almost dropped to a whisper. “... an item?” 

“Yes, hun,” Vanto replied frankly, clearly amused this time. “You guessed it, though. The first time you saw us together.”

“You could tell?” You frowned again. “I was trying really hard not to seem suspicious, honestly.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that obvious except that you asked about our time working together. Thrawn took note of that. He was worried he’d let his guard down too much, or something. I told him not to worry about it.” 

“Thrawn could tell that I… kriff.” You rolled your eyes. _Of course he could tell, laserbrain! That’s what he does!_ “Ugh. I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t come across as rude or anything after that.”

“Not at all,” Vanto said, and he seemed to mean it. “He sure didn’t mind your description of him, though, I gotta say. He’s got much less of an ego than everybody assumes, but I think you might have appeased it a little there.” This came with a chuckle, and a genuinely good-natured one at that. 

“I can easily believe that everyone else in the Navy thinks he’s stuck up, or whatever it is. I’m sure he could come across that way,” you said.

“That’s another thing I noticed. From what he told me, _you_ didn’t assume that the first time you two met.”

“I figured he was just being nice because he likes art so much,” you murmured, flushing again. “I mean, one of the first things he said was that he trusted me with my materials. You have no idea how much I truly never expected to hear anything like that from an Imperial officer’s mouth.” 

“You’d be surprised at the things people read into his tone, or lack thereof. But really, I was starting to worry he’d never make a move. I knew you wouldn’t, because you’re right. He’s your client. You’re professional enough not to take liberties. But, I reckon he didn’t want to pressure you for the same reason.”

Now you looked back at the Commander, feeling his words wrap around you to settle into your bones with a newfound appreciation. “He didn’t?” you asked, voice tiny.

“No. Thrawn’s not like that.” The way he was smiling, it was clear that Vanto knew from personal experience, which was somehow even nicer. For the first time you could see his admiration, his fondness for the Admiral on the young man’s tan face. It lit up his cheeks with warmth, despite being subdued. 

You smiled softly down at your plate. You’d been involved with people who were seeing other people before— you were an artist, after all. The art world of Coruscant was full of its own brand of deviance, novelty, debauchery, even melodrama from time to time. You avoided the last, of course, preferring to disappear from the social spheres where too much idle creative thinking seemed to manifest in petty squabbles. Mostly, you put your lovers’ lovers out of your mind. Often you never met them, and you weren’t exactly trying to settle down at that point— so where there was no sense of threat, there was nothing for you to work on or worry about anyway.

This was the first time you’d not only met and spoken with someone who was seeing the same person you were seeing, it was the first time you’d both openly shown your feelings for the person in question. And here was Vanto being so supportive and easygoing that you didn’t feel even a flash of competitive ire or possessiveness. That was a surprise, to be sure, but far from an unwelcome one.

“I guess I should thank you, then,” you said after a moment, smiling just a little wryly up at him. “I thought I was going mad, trying to read his intentions. But until I came on board the ship, I questioned everything I thought I saw.”

“The fact that you could read him enough to doubt yourself is impressive, Laureate,” Vanto said. “He’s not especially affectionate in the ways we’re used to.”

“No, he’s affectionate in different ways,” you agreed with a nod. “He always makes me feel encouraged to keep working even when I’m at a loss, or frustrated. He offered to bring me holos of the Zabrak ruins before I came out here. He’s so thoughtful about… well, everything.” The lamp for your temporary studio in his sitting room, or taking care of your wrist, or the day in the park, or just offering to keep time and let you work without fretting over the chrono…

Maker, you thought. He really has been _so_ thoughtful, from the beginning.

“He always gave me little pushes. Like he couldn’t just let me be a low-level supply officer the way I always wanted to,” Vanto chuckled. “Apparently he saw more of my potential than I did. I never would have, either, if he hadn’t given me the confidence to look. And he made sure I got promoted alongside him, in spite of everything.”

“Everything?” you asked, raising a brow at him.

“I’m sure you’ve heard enough rumors about him. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t popular to begin with, and the only person who seemed to like him at first was the Emperor himself. As much as the Emperor likes anybody.”

That struck you strangely. Sure, the rumor mill of the Imperial elite was fecund to the point of being irritating, and you took everything you heard with more than one grain of salt unless it involved being afraid of Lord Vader or Tarkin. Those claims seemed unbiased enough, after all, given that most people didn’t gossip about their own fearful indignities. But sometimes the picture you heard painted of Thrawn by the errant wordsmiths of Academy bars, or the occasional fancy party or gallery event, seemed outlandish to the point that you were sure they were being embellished by people who had never even seen the man before. Surely there weren’t actual officials who knew and worked with Thrawn who thought he was an irredeemable asshole, or a ‘high-and-mighty alien who needed to learn his place’, or a ‘snake-tongued advisor’, or one of the Emperor’s ‘pets’ who hadn’t really earned his rank? All of these things had been the veritable broth of the soup of rumors. They’d all been proven patently false to you by this point. 

“That must have been hard for him,” you said quietly. 

“I think he let it roll off of his back pretty well, honestly,” Vanto replied. “Like I said, his ego’s nowhere near what everyone assumes. He never seemed offended by any of it.”

“I mean, I can believe that.” You rolled your eyes fondly. “But… well, I don’t know about you, Commander, but I feel like he cares a great deal. About, well, me. Us. His job. I’d hate for him to be hiding any hurt, I guess. But maybe Chiss just aren’t like us, that way.” 

“I’m sure some Chiss are more like that, but Thrawn only seems to feel the pressure on a certain level.” Vanto was stroking his chin thoughtfully. “He doesn’t like to be beaten, strategically speaking, but who does? And he’ll respect any opponent who gives him a run for his money, of which there have been amazingly few. I’ve never once seen him lose his temper for a personal reason.”

“So he’s patient with you, too, huh?” you said with that smile back on your face.

“More patient than I am with him,” he replied with a smile of his own. “I’m awfully happy about this, Laureate. _He_ seems happy. And I don’t mean his usual kind of, you know, unruffledness. I mean, when he looks at you, I can tell he sees something special.”

Your face got markedly warmer, and your heart softened and soaked into the spongy feeling of your chest. “That’s… thank you, Commander.”

“You can call me Eli when it’s not a command thing,” he said, waving your protocol off absently. “I know you’ll return to Coruscant eventually, but now that he’s finally taken the plunge, I think it’s safe to say you’re in the family now.”

 _The family?_ “What do you mean?” you asked, keeping your tone carefully neutral. That word was fully loaded, for you, and you wanted to be sure what you were signing up for.

“Just that I’ll consider you kinda like family until something changes. I mean we’re closer than we were before, now, just by default,” he said cheerfully. “I care about Thrawn, and he cares about you. That’s good enough for me.”

You felt your hackles lower. His words seemed not to carry the same dense feeling of obligation and expectation that you felt when you heard the word ‘family’. Maybe ‘friend’ was more the word you’d choose, but then again, maybe he just felt like his place as your metamour was closer than friends, perhaps somewhere in a gray area between family and friend. Either way, he wasn’t asking for anything from you. In fact, he seemed to feel responsible for your wellbeing in some way. 

“That’s very kind of you, Comman— I mean, Eli.” You smiled with a little trepidation, but still felt reassured. For a moment the two of you were silent, and then you had a thought. It might be a little too soon to ask such a personal question, you worried, but it was eating at you a little. And who else in the galaxy would have an answer?

“Um, so, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but did it… take him a while to, um, you know. Get physically close with you, too?” you asked in a near whisper, leaning your head down and little closer to his. The fact that you hadn’t even seen Thrawn’s lower half yet was bothering you a little. 

“Hm?” Eli replied, blinking as though it took him a moment to register precisely what you meant. “Oh! Yeah. Yeah, it takes him a bit. I think it’s a biological thing, you know, a Chiss thing. It’s… well. I assume you’ll find out pretty soon, but I promise it’s not you.”

You sighed, almost embarrassed at the relief that washed over you. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure what that was about. He just keeps saying that I should be patient, and our bodies will need to adjust to each other, or something.” 

“Listen, they’ll adjust, believe me.” The Commander was holding in a knowing chuckle. “He’s just being cautious, I think. It’s a sign of respect, truly. Chiss just seem to get… excited. Sometimes.” 

You raised not one, but both brows heavenward. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Eli’s face was sage, and he nodded. “It’s not a problem. It’s kind of a cycle, I think, a pattern of some kind, the excitement. Don’t worry about it.” 

The idea of Thrawn getting _excited_ bled into all the other notions that seemed to rile you right up, the ones of him losing control or openly swooning over you. Anything that indicated that his immaculate, porcelain demeanor might get broken long enough for you to really see just how he was feeling. You wanted to ask more, but you got the impression that Eli would be less than divulgent. Besides, it amounted to asking him _very_ personal details about his own sex life, you realized, and that wasn’t polite at all.

“Okay. I won’t worry, then,” you said. “Thanks for the reassurance, though.”

“Of course,” he smiled. 

“Do you know when he’s coming back from planetside?”

“Maybe late tonight, really late. If everything goes according to plan.” He checked his wrist chrono. “If not, tomorrow.”

“I’ll just not even ask about what the plan is,” you said, shaking your head. “I want to, but there is literally no reason for me to know. I don’t know the first thing about military strategy.” 

“This mission has been more diplomatic than militant, actually, but yeah. You shouldn’t worry about that, either. Thrawn can handle this pretty much with his eyes closed.”

“What should I do instead?” you asked, brow wrinkling. “I really do get bored.”

“Um,” Eli said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I never considered how dull a ship might be to someone who didn’t have much in the way of active duties while on board.” 

“It’s okay, I understand. It’s not like it’s usual.”

“No, but I still wish I had any suggestions. But anytime I’m off-duty, we can hang out, if you want.” His smile was refreshingly sincere and open, you thought, after catching the flits of good humor that passed across Thrawn’s face like wisps of cloud. Then again, those smiles had begun to linger longer, too. 

“Thanks for that. I’ll take you up on it, really,” you said. “Tonight I think I’ll just read and mope, or something.”

“Yeah, I’m on duty until he gets back anyway. Want me to tell him to comm you when he gets here, assuming there’s nothing urgent going on?” 

“That would be really great, actually.” 

“Okay,” Eli said as he put his fork on his now-empty plate. “I’ll let him know.”

“I hope I’m not cutting into your time together, by the way,” you said with a frown. “I… I don’t really know how this works.”

“Honestly, I’m letting the two of you have all the time you want while you’re here,” he said softly to you. “I mean, I live here. I see Thrawn every kriffing day. But for you two, this time is kinda special, especially since now I know for sure that he’s spending it with you.”

Truly, you’d lost count of the number of times you’d been surprised during this brief conversation with Commander Vanto. “Wow,” you murmured. “Thank you, Eli. I’m… well, I’m flattered, that’s very generous.”

“Nah, I think it’s only fair. He and I got time together early on, too, right?” He smiled. “Plus, I think you’re pretty cool. If you weren’t, that might be different.”

Now you were chuckling. “Okay, you have a point. You’re very sweet, or else I might have been _really_ jealous.”

“Well, I try,” he said as he stood up from the table. “I gotta get back to the bridge. I’ll let him know to comm you, though, and you can comm me if you need something. Just, yanno, keep it a little less than obvious.”

Ah, there it was. This _was_ against the rules somehow, but Eli was a practiced hand at dealing with that, apparently. “Understood,” you nodded. “Hope the rest of the mission goes well.”

“Thanks, Laureate. Enjoy your reading and moping, huh?” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

You watched him amble off, putting his tray in the bus window before he exited. This was a strange turn of events, you thought, but what in your life hadn’t been strange lately? And so few of those events were unpleasant, too. Resting your head on your hand, watching as you ruined the surreal landscape of food items on your plate-canvas by stirring your fork over it in loops, you felt lighter, somehow. Like maybe the moping part of your itinerary might get rescheduled for another time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay since this chapter isn't smut i figured i'd go ahead and let y'all have it, because i wanted a lil time with supportive poly boyfriend and true cinnamon roll Eli Vanto <3
> 
> because i like depicting healthy non-monogamy AND making y'all wait just... a leeeetle.... longer..... :3 plus i mean the artist getting to seek a little reassurance from Eli is kinda nice, too, right? and to hear all that cute shit about how Thrawn feels about them.... yeah idk i love this kinda stuff so i threw some in ^_^


	18. pigment

Eli kept his word, and you awoke in the middle of the ship’s artificially-induced night to the ring of your wrist comm on the table by your bed. 

“Laureate, this is Thrawn,” came the distant, tiny sound over the speaker. Turning over, you fumbled until the thing was in your hands and pulled it close to your face, eyes barely open. 

“Hi,” you murmured sleepily. “Are you back now?” 

You could hear, even in that state, the little smile in his voice. “Yes, _euhn in'a,_ I am back aboard the _Chimaera._ I was told you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah.” A yawn caught the word and stretched it out into a sigh. 

“It is clear from your voice that I woke you,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you should return to sleeping, and you and I may convene tomorrow for another session on the portrait.” 

“But I missed you,” you protested. 

“Yes, but you must rest.”

“Will you at least come and tell me how your mission went, sir?” Your voice was a little pitched with the plea in it, and you were wakeful enough to throw in an honorific on the not-so-off chance it might please him. 

A pause on the other end of the link meant that he was deliberating, but it wasn’t very long. “Alright. You are far too difficult to resist, you know.”

That caused a self-satisfied smile to curl over your face, and you snuggled into your pillow with the commlink still in your hand. “I’ll see you soon, Grand Admiral.” 

“Indeed.” He closed the link, and the white light fell faint. Holding the device close to your face, heart fluttering in your belly, you thought about maybe sitting up and turning on the lamp, or washing your face, freshening up...

The next thing you were aware of was a body perching on the edge of your bed, a warm and familiar weight accompanied by an equally familiar smell. The lights were still off, save for the ambient low lamp in the ‘fresher, and so the glow of his red eyes settled over you more clearly than ever as your eyes fluttered open.

“See, what did I tell you? Sleepy little thing,” Thrawn said in a gentle voice that was colored with subtle amusement. You rubbed your lids, realizing that you’d fallen asleep again, and let out a little sigh. The commlink was still in your hand, apparently, because he was lifting it and placing it on your bedside table. Your arm trailed after his, grasping. He wasn’t wearing his uniform jacket, you realized as you caught his wrist and felt his warm skin under your palm. Tugging him back towards you, you felt his body shift and turn more in your direction where he sat. 

“Please lay with me,” you said, trying to nuzzle his arm with your nose. His hand, which always seemed bigger than you remembered every time it landed on your face, stroked your cheek. 

“A moment,” he said, and pulled away from you. You frowned, but then heard the sound of one of his boots slipping off his foot and onto the floor. Then went the other one, and in the cradle of the lush darkness Thrawn lifted the blanket of your bed and slid in beside you. His arms wrapped you close; his body moved gently rather than disturb your position. Burying yourself in the heat of his chest— he was in the undershirt, of course— you let him envelop you. 

“Mmm,” you hummed, awash with content.

“How was your day?” he asked. 

“I sketched. Mostly junk. Dinner with Eli. Nothing special.”

“Junk,” he tutted. “Dubious, but we shall see.”

“How was the thing?” Words were still coming slowly. 

“The mission went splendidly,” he replied softly. “I have enlisted the support of the Grand Moff, as I mentioned, and I believe that within a few days I will have all the clues I require to corner the splinter cell.”

“Good,” you pronounced as though you had any authority on the subject at all. 

“You were most helpful.”

You laughed a quiet, breathy, sleepy laugh. “Yeah, alright. Whatever you say, sir.” 

“Sometimes it can be easy to forget that one has certain help to enlist,” he continued. “Some allyships have fallen apart under pressure, for whatever reasons. I must insist upon recognizing that such small reminders as the one you afforded me can make all the difference, and today, that is precisely what they did.” 

That made you a little gooey inside, and suddenly you thought about what Eli had told you at dinner. The idea of Thrawn dealing with such a unidirectional antagonism, one that he’d had to convert patiently and with great effort into trust for his crew and anyone else he could, seemed so cruel to you. Even more than that, here he was being patient with you after all of that. 

“Everyone should be willing to help,” you murmured, snuggling closer. “Your people here respect you instead of fear you. And you always get your job done. I can’t say that about anyone else in the Empire.”

“I have not always succeeded at every task I have been set by the Emperor,” he said, “but I appreciate your sentiment nonetheless, _euhn in'a._ ”

“I guess I’m biased,” you said with a smile. “But I’ve never met anyone like you.”

He shifted, and you felt one hand take your chin and tilt it up as his face moved down so close to yours that your noses touched. “Nor have I met anyone like you,” he murmured. You felt yourself dissolve into his breaths, suddenly alert in a way you hadn’t been moments before. Heat throbbed between your legs. 

“Thrawn,” you sighed, one hand running up over the beautiful sculpture of his chest. 

“I wonder,” he hummed, and his other hand was stroking your side, moving over your skin, reminding you very suddenly that you’d gone to bed in the nude as was your preference, “what it is about your voice that makes me desire so much to hear you say my name like that.” 

“I…” The goosebumps that were erupting all over your body as he touched you were not making it easy for you to articulate yourself, between that and your sleepiness. 

“Your tongue rolls,” he continued. “Others speak it so crudely, bluntly. But you, you almost sound like you speak Cheunh.”

There was no response that assembled itself in time to escape your lips before a little moan did; his hand had trailed over your ass and wrapped around the very inner apex of your thigh to bring your leg up and over his hips. It granted him access enough to run a finger along the rapidly developing wetness there. His lips wrapped around your bottom one, tugging your mouth open for a much deeper kiss. 

For a moment, you were rendered into gelatinous acceptance. His every touch swarmed your body with heady, extra drowsy lust. The moment that shifted, though, was the moment you felt it. Whatever it was that made his groin so firm in the first place, now there was something else. A hardness that was much more familiar to you, developing right against you. 

Instinct took over, and you ground your hips against it with every drop of hunger that was flooding you, slow and intent. Ever so briefly you felt his hips begin to return the movement. But then he stalled them, not moving away from you but no longer pushing against you either. He made no motion to stop you, though, as you continued. 

“Sir,” you breathed against him, tearing yourself out of the kiss and taking his face in your hands, “please. Don’t you want me?”

It was too late to stop the tiny whimper of desperation from creeping into your voice, you noted with some frustration. But in spite of Eli’s reassurance, this still felt strangely one-sided. 

“You cannot possibly imagine how much,” he said in a near growl that shook you to your core. 

“Then why won’t you take me?” 

Drawing enough away from you to look you squarely in your face, hand trailing over your cheek again, Thrawn was silent for a moment. You could see him thinking, running whatever his concerns were through the diamond of his mind and taking in your earnest supplication simultaneously. It felt like a minor eternity before he spoke.

“I am concerned I might hurt you. I am… not built for your species.”

“You keep saying that,” you pointed out with a little frown and a crease of your brow. “Show me, sir. Please. Let me touch you and understand what you’re worried about. We can work on it together.” 

In the red ambient light of his gaze, you saw him give that little smile. “Alright.”

Then he wrapped his ample hands around your waist and turned the two of you, pulling you atop him as he lay beneath you. The bulge under your cunt appeared to have grown just a little in spite of his apparent anxieties; you couldn’t help but grind against it again experimentally. His face betrayed nothing, at least not in the semi-darkness, but you felt his hips twitch.

Sliding your fingers under the fabric of his shirt, you pushed it up slowly. He leaned up to help you peel it off completely, and you ran your hands over his torso just for a moment before you began to shimmy down and seek out the clasp of his trousers. 

The gloaming of that artificial night made it difficult for you to see exactly what the slow removal of the offending garment revealed. But instead of stopping to gawk, you pulled the legs over each of his feet and gently laid the white trousers on the floor. From here, you could see a mound between his legs, and something beginning to protrude from the flesh above it. 

Part of you wanted to turn the lights on. Another part of you was submersed in the eroticism of the faint light, the sensory awareness of all but your eyes extra active and alert to every touch and movement. Still another part wondered, almost appalled at itself, if Thrawn was somehow _shy_ about this. 

That seemed unlikely. He could probably see better than you right now, anyway. 

You slid a hand up his spectacular quad muscle, gently pressing close to the mound at his crotch. The movements of his body, much like those of his face, betrayed little. Crawling up closer, taking in a deep breath of the scent of him which seemed only to be stronger now, you touched the part that was beginning to extrude. It throbbed under your touch, and pushed out a little farther. 

His breathing was steady, maybe a little deeper than usual. He was watching you as though you were at your easel, rapt. Leaning down closer, stroking him softly, you felt everything that was happening more than you saw it. This was, without a doubt, Thrawn’s cock. It was heavy towards the tip, and you could feel little ridges along its underside. The shape of it was… unusual, but not in a bad way at all. Your fingers trailed around the base, and you realized that there was a slit it was protruding from that, close to its opening, was soft and fleshy and a little slick with some natural lubricant. 

It didn’t take a lot of math to put together that the mound below it was probably where his testes were. Whatever the planet of Csilla was like, this whole configuration was much more protective than that of a human man, you thought. Yet not vastly different.

When you stroked one side of the slit, Thrawn contained a jerk of his hips. You looked up at his face, and could have sworn you detected a trace of strain there. But you might’ve been making it up. The way the muscles in his abdomen tensed when you traced along the other side, though, was absolutely real. There had to be a wicked little smirk on your face; finding a sensitive spot on this indomitable man was like finding hidden treasure. His cock was betraying him, too, as it continued to emerge from its safe place. 

And continued. And… continued. _Maker alive,_ you thought. _He’s…_ _big._

Suddenly you knew what he was worried about. But at the same time you were entranced, as the beautiful and not quite human shape of it finally became as clear as it would ever be in such dim lighting. Somehow, the shadows rendered it almost ethereal in its curvature. You leaned down once again to place a kiss just beneath the head of it. 

“ _Euhn in'a,_ ” came a gentle command from above, “come here.” 

Eyes huge, you looked up at Thrawn’s face. His hands were on either side of him now, outstretched just a little with his summons. Expression-wise, it was difficult to tell if he was bothered or not. So you climbed up the length of his body, feeling his hands take your waist again. He towed you down close, bringing his knees up behind you, and _Maker_ you could feel his cock bobbing against the small of your back from this position. 

“Yes, sir?” you asked him in a whisper. You were once again lost in the fog of his near lack of expression and hoped nothing was wrong.

“Listen to me,” he said, and the softness of his voice was reassuring. “If you desire, you may try to take me now. I believe I can remain in control enough to help, and to make sure you are not hurt. You must not do anything else to arouse me, do you understand?”

You nodded, realizing that your heart was racing. It was truly amazing to be held in such powerful arms and yet still feel as though you had any degree of control whatsoever, that your touch might tip this impressive Chiss into a frenzy you could only imagine. That you kind of still wanted to see.

“You may set your own pace,” he continued. “Please, do not force yourself to continue if you feel pain.”

“I won’t,” you assured him. 

His legs lowered, and you leaned back up with his hands still loosely on your torso. Reaching around, you noticed that when you sat upright his length didn’t seem as absurd as it had moments ago. You took his cock in your hand and held it steady as you rose up on your knees. There was something almost ceremonial about what was happening, but that didn’t detract from the eroticism of it at all. In fact, you felt your thighs quivering with anticipation as you angled yourself over his head and finally began to slide down. 

It didn’t take long for you to reach the first moment of resistance, what with the head of him being so broad. You took it slow, pushing him inside you with a little effort and adjusting the tilt of your sacrum. The pressure of it was _fantastic._

“Oooh,” you sighed, feeling a pang of pleasure just before a moment of sharp tension caused you to pause. Thrawn was watching you intently, not moving his hips at all as you began again. Another wave of pressure as you eased down enough to take a little more, and your breaths started to come in harder. You could tell this was going to be a bit of a challenge, but honestly? You were more than up for it. 

It wasn’t until the first time that you sucked in a breath with a brief pain that Thrawn spoke. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, and the concern was clear. 

“Yes,” you nodded, trying to deepen your breaths. “I just… I have to remember to relax.” 

“May I assist you?” 

“Um, sure,” you said, confused for a moment. Then his hand slid down between your legs and found your clit with short, easy little pets. Your whole body shuddered with the unexpected sensation that washed over you, and you felt him side in deeper by yet another margin without even trying. Moaning softly, you let yourself sink.

You had no notion of how long it actually took for you to reach the point that you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were as full of him as you would ever be, at least from this angle. By the time you got there, though, you were a whimpering, twitching mess. There was a curve to him that was emphasizing the pressure in all the right places, and in new places you’d never thought about before.

“Maker, Thrawn,” you burbled between rapid breaths. “You… you’re… this feels _amazing._ ”

“Good,” he said, a sweet and satisfied tone in his voice. If he was struggling with some latent instinct to tear into you, he betrayed nothing of it. His fingers circled over your clit still, and his other hand was tight on your waist. You shifted your hips, and the sheer pressure inside you seemed to force more sounds out of you as if there were no room for them left within. 

For a split second, you thought you’d never be able to actually move, and the notion of him thrusting was a little bit terrifying. But that need to drive your hips against him was back, so you indulged it at a leisurely pace. To your surprise, it didn’t take you long to graduate to a pace with more usual levels of urgency. 

Panting, groaning, you started to bounce, chasing the orgasm that was building inside your guts with every little flick of his fingers on your nub and the amazing pleasure of him stretching your inner walls. His stare was more and more fierce, his body absolutely frozen while you rode him. But you could see his chest moving a little more, and the barest parting of his lips revealed clenched teeth. 

“Oh, oh kriff—” you gasped, feeling yourself hurtle that much closer to the edge. Then, you heard it. A soft, feral little snarl from Thrawn that kicked your heart into overdrive and pushed you right off the cliff. Heat burst inside you, and the fire ran through your nerves until you shook and keened softly and your downward thrusts started to stutter. 

And then his hips started to move, just a little, to rut up into you as you clenched around him. Gasping, your moans pitched higher as just when you’d expected the crescendo of your orgasm to pass it instead ballooned up and pushed even more quaking, dripping ecstasy out of your body. 

“Thrawn!” you wailed, tears pooling in your eyes as he fucked you through it, hand still dutifully milking your clit for more and more volts of electricity. His motions were limited, heavily controlled, and still completely devastating.

“Yes?” he asked, and his voice was almost predatory.

“I— _fuck—_ it’s still happening—” 

“Is it good?” 

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Then enjoy it, _euhn in'a,_ ” he cooed, and you realized you had sagged back against his bent knees, limp and held up by his grip, caught in the pattern of his thrusts. Your eyes unfocused and rolled away, every last word in your head vanishing in favor of a long, ragged howl. 

When he finally stalled and lifted you by the waist, you realized he’d pulled out and was now breathing very hard. Slumping back, you wrapped a weak hand around his as your legs shook on either side of his torso. He splayed his free hand over your middle as it heaved up and down with your huge breaths. 

After a moment, you decided you’d had enough of sitting upright and leaned down towards him despite the limpness of your limbs. Guiding you down to lay on his chest, Thrawn’s eyes never left your face. He tugged you up close, brushing his nose up against yours.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Mmmm,” you replied with a smile, eyes barely open. You tried to nod a little, to signal something positive. You felt like you were adrift in the clouds of a nebula, buoyant and comfortable. He stroked your face.

“I suppose you would not feel sore yet,” he mused. 

“Nope,” you replied blearily. There wasn’t an ounce of pain in your body. A faint chuckle came from the Chiss, who slowly began to turn so you could lay on your side. He craned his head down to kiss you, the motions of his mouth still charged with some energy or another. You realized that the pressure of his swollen cock hadn’t ebbed as it pressed against your thigh.

“Did you not even finish?” you asked as you pulled back slightly, yanked out of your fugue. 

“No, but that is no matter,” he said. “I would prefer to be cautious, and your body is still… adapting.”

“Thrawn,” you frowned, taking his impressive cheekbone in your hand. “I want this to be good for you.” 

“It is exhilarating to watch you, to make you feel this way, Laureate,” he crooned, and the genuine adoration in his voice made you want to melt away. “I will savor every moment of it until I may be assured that my own physical gratification will not mar yours in any way.” 

“You are too good,” you murmured, heart fluttering. Now that you were coming down at last from the heights to which he’d sent you, though, the soreness he’d mentioned was setting in ever so slightly. _There’s no soreness that would make this not worth it,_ you thought. _But there has to be another way to let him…_

“I have an idea,” you said after a moment, smiling slyly. You saw him raise a brow, but he made no move to stop you as you turned around to press your back against his body. The throb of his cock was easy enough to find as you gently ground your ass back up against it. He drew in a breath that was slower, more deliberate, clearly a symptom of his arousal. Moving your legs just a little apart, you reached down to pull him between your legs, along the dripping lips of your cunt. 

Then you closed your legs, and pushed back and forth experimentally. Between the natural slickness of both of your bodies, he slid in and out of the flesh of your inner thighs easily and dragged his length along against your clit in the process, making it light up your body again despite its recent taxation. 

“How’s this, sir?” you asked him in a self-satisfied little coo, leaning your head back against his chest. Another slow breath, followed by a barely audible growl, confirmed your notion.

“ _Euhn in'a,_ how clever you are,” he replied, one hand gripping your hip tightly as he began to thrust. You moaned, feeling the power of his hips as he fucked your thighs and rubbed against your bud. It was even better with the compliment that preceded it, of course. The fact that you’d considered even one idea that Thrawn hadn’t already, in literally any context, was profoundly rewarding especially when it meant that you could hear his breaths coming harder and harder, his hips going faster, the string of quiet little hisses and low groans in your very ear. 

It was when his other hand slid around to tilt your head back by the throat, holding you quite still as his rhythm began to almost double in speed, that you started to shake. The rapid-fire pangs from your clit burned through you and started to curl up in your guts, winding tighter and tighter. You clenched your legs together even tighter, whimpering as another orgasm crept up on you. 

His sounds were incredible, his powerful body making you feel weak with desire as he rutted. You were imagining this inside you, imagining the day when he finally fucked you senseless. It would come sooner than later, you resolved, because just this alone was enough to drive you completely mad. How much better would be the real thing? 

It was him leaning close to your ear and letting the rumbles of his carnal appetites wash hot and close that pushed you over the edge, held there as you were. The sounds you made and the shivering of your legs must have done something for him, too, because his breaths and thrusts picked up to frantic levels and he finally let out a low moan. You felt the trails of his seed sputter and run warm down your legs at last, and felt his hips twitch against you. 

“See,” you murmured, “not so bad.” 

In between his pants, he released your neck and tucked his nose up against the nape of it instead. He made no response yet, only held you against him and let himself come down just as you did. Between your legs, his cock took its sweet time, too. 

There was blurry time where you laid there, marked by the way you both were still yet your breaths were coming in unison. Then he kissed the back of your neck, and your shoulder, and the soft skin at the corner of your jaw. You sighed, feeling his hand on your waist again.

“I think I must tell you,” he said softly, “that there is a bond created between us now, one governed by Chiss biology.”

“I thought there was a bond before now,” you replied, half humor and half nerves. 

“Oh, there most certainly was,” he assured you. “But the one I speak of is physiological in nature, connected to but not the same as the intellectual and emotional bond I believe we have shared.” 

_Okay, something about hearing him say it…_ Your heart thudded in your ears. An emotional bond! _Maker,_ you thought, _I’m… I’m in it now, aren’t I?_

“What does that mean?” you asked.

“It means that when we are near to each other, my body will become symbiotically synchronized with yours. In my experience, humans bodies respond to this connection almost as avidly as Chiss bodies do.” _That_ was certainly curious, to you. You wondered exactly what such synchronization would entail. 

“So you’re linked like that with Eli, too?” 

You felt him smile against your neck. “I see the Commander has been taking liberties. Yes, we are bonded in such a way.”

“He was very kind to me today,” you said, turning a little more towards Thrawn onto your back so you could meet his red eyes. “It was comforting to talk to him. He said he doesn’t get to see you this… happy, usually.” It almost embarrassed you to say it, to acknowledge openly that the Admiral was happy with you in a way that even his other partner noticed and found exciting. 

“I suppose he does not,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Unless I am with him alone, and missions have been going well. I’m surprised he brought up our connection, however. I believe it was not quite appropriate of me to fail to mention it to you before.”

“I guess neither of us thought this would be a big deal,” you said, realizing more with every word that it _was_ a big deal. “I suspected, but didn’t ask. Because most of the time, I don’t really want to know.”

“I assumed as much.” He stroked your cheek. “But I think it might behoove me to be more transparent in the future. I hope you will forgive me for that indiscretion.”

Maker alive, he was so sweet. “Of course,” you murmured, moving his hand so you could kiss the tips of his fingers. “If it was a problem I would’ve said something. I, um, honestly never considered this would last very long.” 

The slight cant of his head indicated his curiosity. “Why not?” 

“Er, well. You’re a Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy. I’m… an artist. Paid by the Empire or not, our paths can never really run parallel.” 

“Is that what you would prefer?” His voice fell quieter when he asked it, and you didn’t know what that meant exactly. 

“I dunno,” you answered honestly, shrugging. “I don’t know what I want. I’ve never felt ready to settle down, though. Maybe one day I will, but right now I just want experiences, I guess. I want to be inspired, learn and try new things. I think it’ll help me get more invested in my work.” 

“Is your work unsatisfying?” he asked, and sounded more concretely concerned than he had all evening.

“Honestly, sir, yours is the first portrait I’ve painted in years that I’ve enjoyed the process of. And not just because you brought me here to the _Chimaera,_ either.” Your eyes were in their endless loop with his, and a rock appeared in your throat as you realized that you weren’t exactly happy at your job, in the permacrete and transparisteel tomb you had not the means to leave. In spite of being comfortable and well supplied, years of painting unwilling or ungrateful subjects with so little room for adventure in between had left your personal work a little deflated, and your enthusiasm even more so.

“What is it that would make you happy, Laureate?” His voice was soft, invested, even tender. You blinked back the tears that suddenly sprang into your eyes, there in the darkness of the guest suite of a Star Destroyer out in the far reaches of the galaxy. A place you’d never once imagined you’d be for any reason, much less because a Grand Admiral had gotten it into his head that you deserved every possible accommodation for completing your work. The fact that he was here, naked in a bed and holding you like there was nothing else in the galaxy that was more deserving of his attention in that moment? That was unfathomable.

What _would_ make you happy? 

“I guess… I just want to work on my personal pieces. And I want to be able to make them about _anything_ that inspires me, or torments me, or captivates me. To see art from other places, other cultures, other beings. Not to have to curb my subject matter, or charge extra for the Empire’s cut. Erotic or controversial or not, whatever I want.” You sighed, feeling your tears retreat save one that ran down along your nose and into the crevice of your cheek. “But every artist wants that, and it’s impossible to do without some other job bogging you down, getting in the way. Or some other extraordinary circumstance you can’t just waste your life waiting around for.” 

Thrawn’s blue hand came up to gently swipe the tear-trail on your face away. You closed your eyes, feeling very acutely the fact that you were in a magical place, a moment unlike any other in your life ever had been or ever would be. The sorrow of your confined little existence was there, but so was an enormous sense of gratitude. 

“You are an extraordinary creature, _euhn in'a,_ ” the Chiss murmured. “Perhaps extraordinary circumstances are not so unlikely as you imagine.” 

A laugh bubbled up from your chest. “Thrawn, you’re so sweet to me,” you sighed, smiling at him. It was less important, in that moment, if he was right or not. The fact that he said it was enough to make you return to feeling warm and strangely at home.

“Will you humor me a moment?” he asked. “I am very interested to see how my full name sounds when you speak it.” 

You raised an eyebrow. This was a strange change of subject, you thought, but not in a bad way. Just in a very _him_ way. “What’s your full name?”

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he said. Your other eyebrow flew up to join its sibling as you blinked a couple of times. 

“Wait, will you say it again, a little bit slower?” you asked, straining to listen to the lilting sounds once more.

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he repeated, slowing as you asked and drawing out the careful ululating vowels and soft whispery consonants. _That must be a doozy to put on a nametag._

“Mitth-rawn-uruodo,” you repeated carefully, knowing that it wasn’t quite right yet. “Mitth’raw’nuruodo? Maker, that’s harder than I thought it would be.” 

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he repeated one last time.

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” The more you said it, the less like a word or name it seemed. It was just a ripple of lovely, subtle sounds that were the devil to mimic. None of the sounds (or what you imagined their written characters would be) quite resembled that of their equivalents in Basic. “I haven’t got it right, have I?”

“You are actually quite a bit closer than most humans,” he smiled, that fond look coming over him again. “I doubt you will ever get it perfectly, as nearly all who are not taught Cheunh from birth will not. But it is a great pleasure to hear you speak it, regardless.” 

“I think you might be a little biased,” you teased him, cheeks warming as you smiled. 

“Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not.” When all you did was smile and shake your head a little at him, he drew you closer. “You must sleep, Laureate.”

“I must take a shower,” you muttered, glancing down at your leg. “You made a bit of a mess, sir.”

“We might freshen up together,” he said, “and then you might retire with me to my quarters while your bedclothes are in need of replacement.” 

A grin stole over your face. “I might, hm?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this today just in case it eases anyone's anxiety, since i know that's a little high in the US today. maybe some wholesome and super hot smut might take the edge off <3


	19. perspective

Though to some extent you hung always a little close to the edge of worrying that the insurgents, or some other antagonistic group, would make their way back to the same part of space that the _Chimaera_ was in, your time on the ship passed much more smoothly over the next couple of days. The Grand Admiral saw no end of meetings and planetside engagements while he was chasing down more and more clues about the splinter cell. You saw each other only briefly and for little more than kisses and minimal updates; sometimes his mind was working so quickly you wondered how he got by on so little sleep. _Must be a Chiss thing._

In the meantime you’d begun to settle into some sketching, swimming, and hanging out with Eli when Thrawn was not there. The Commander was easygoing, telling you stories about his ventures with the Admiral that honestly blew the cornucopia of rumors you’d sampled in the social dens of Coruscant out of the sky. The two of you were at the table you’d started to consider your own inside the officer’s mess one evening as the ship hung above the planet Utapau, which you had yet to actually see but you knew was a major location in Thrawn’s endless triangulation of the black market art trade.

“Is he always this obsessive?” you asked Eli as you leaned back in your chair, your meal finished. 

“Er, well, yeah, pretty much,” he replied with a chuckle. “Though, this particular issue seems to have gotten his attention a little more than most.” 

“Because it’s about art?” 

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “I mean, if there is a group or even a single person behind the disruptions, they’re actually thinking a lot like he does. I mentioned that to him the other day. ‘Course he’d already drawn the same conclusion.”

“Huh,” you mused. Someone else in the galaxy thinking even remotely like Thrawn seemed unlikely, yet this was the first you’d ever heard of someone disrupting financially niche but culturally relevant trades like art and artifacts. Just the kind of thing Thrawn would be interested in. “Well, if anyone can figure it out, it’s him.” 

“Yeah, I figure so. There’s one other insurgent who’s given him a run for his money, one we’ve run into repeatedly. But his style is different, and he’s meddling in bigger exports and getting more of the Empire’s attention.”

“So that’s your area of expertise?” you asked, grinning a little at Eli. “Major shipping trades, I mean.” 

“I guess so, yeah,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Guess it’s a good thing he’s got the two of us to give him that one tiny little thought he’s not quite had himself, yet.” 

You giggled. “I don’t think I’m all that helpful to him, to be honest. The one time I was, it really seemed like a fluke. I’ve told him a thousand times, I’m no strategist.” 

“He’s the strategist. If he needs something he doesn’t have yet to formulate a strategy or four, he’ll ask.”

“True.” You smiled at the floppy-haired Commander. “You really seem well-suited to being out here, Eli.” 

“I really never thought I’d make it to a Star Destroyer until I was a senior supply officer,” he said. “Now that I’m in one, I really do like it. Better, now, that Thrawn is running it. It’s only been a few months, but it does start to feel like home.” 

You felt a little pang of envy, then. Not that you wanted to take Eli’s happiness _away_ from him and have it for yourself, of course. Just, it was so easy and natural for him to be on the ship. In the military. Right alongside the Chiss you’d both gotten so invested in. For you, it wasn’t that simple. Art was very much the love of your life, whether studying it or creating it, and the act of doing so inside a ship forever seemed… unreasonable. Farfetched. And, moreover, unsatisfying. Even if a studio room with adaptable lighting could be installed in such a ship— and there was no reason at all to believe that the Empire would pay for that, or even approve one of their officers doing it— it wouldn’t be the same as the sun on Coruscant, the windows, the fresh air outside, the cafe window, the park. Even if the studio was different, moved somewhere else for whatever reason, it would still be the home base you needed. 

The stars were beautiful, and the art of other beings was fascinating. Inspiring. But, what did that matter if you had no nest to return to where you could happily draw on that inspiration? If you couldn’t take breaks to process, to create what you needed to in order to express yourself? 

“Laureate?” asked Eli, and you realized you’d gone quiet for a moment. “You alright?” 

“Yeah, sorry,” you murmured, looking back into his earnest hazel eyes. “Just… it’s been incredible to be here. But, no matter which way you dice it, I don’t belong out here like you do.” 

His shoulders dropped as he seemed to understand what you were feeling. “Aw, I’m sorry, hun.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him quietly. “It is what it is. I’m certainly not sorry I’m here now, though.” There was a half-hearted smile, bittersweet but not false, on your face. At least all of these feelings and experiences would be enriching your personal work like nothing else ever had for a while afterwards, right? 

_Afterwards._

“I’m really glad you came. It’s been good to get to know you,” Eli said, his smile very sweet. But there was something in his eyes, like he wished he could say something else, make you some promise or another that would make you feel a little better. Perhaps a promise he knew ultimately wasn’t in his power to keep. 

“I feel the same about you,” you replied, hanging onto the thread of warmth that his support and friendship still gave you in spite of the rest. Just as you were about to say something else that was more positive in an attempt to cheer yourself up, Eli’s commlink beeped. 

“Commander Vanto,” he said as he raised his wrist to his face; he no longer apologized for answering it mid-conversation, now that you were quite used to it. Duty came first, and you had no problem accepting that. 

“Commander, this is Thrawn,” came the voice you’d been looking forward to hearing all day. “I am en route back to the _Chimaera._ Summon the commanding officers to the bridge, and bring the Artist Laureate with you.”

“Uh, yes sir,” Eli replied, looking up at you with surprise on his face that matched your own. _Why the kriff would he want me up there?_ “How soon will you be back on board?”

“Five standard minutes.” 

“Very good, sir.” He turned off the commlink and raised his eyebrows at you. “Well, I reckon you’d better come with me, then, huh?” 

You blinked for a moment, but he was already rising to his feet and collecting his tray. You scrambled up after him, looking down at your shirt. Invariably, it was covered in paint. 

“Should I dress in something different?” you asked Eli as you trotted up alongside him, exiting the mess hall. It was old habit to err on the semi-formal side as much as you reasonably could with officers of the Imperial Navy, and being on the bridge when Thrawn’s voice sounded that official ruffled your anxiety about your presentation. 

“Oh, don’t bother,” Eli said, waving away your concerns. “Thrawn doesn’t care, and it doesn’t much matter what everyone else thinks, does it?” 

“I guess not,” you murmured, still a little uncomfortable. There was nothing like the armed forces to insist upon tidiness and the respect that was implied by formalities, something you’d had to adjust to with a few growing pains back in the day. 

You filed onto the bridge with Eli, and noticed that Commodore Faro and a few others you’d seen around with her. Some of them cast looks of confusion at you, not exactly furtively, but they seemed to pass just as quickly. Thrawn’s unorthodox style was clearly not news to these members of his crew.

“Very good, you’re all here,” came the Chiss’ voice from the entrance as the massive doors slid open and his white-uniformed figure strode across the command deck with all the assurance and intent it ever did. _Maker, he’s that much hotter walking into this room,_ you thought. But now was far from the time to follow your thoughts down that particular ashrabbit-hole. 

“News, sir?” Eli asked, his demeanor also a little more professional— and a little more confident, too. 

“A moment,” Thrawn said, holding up a finger to quiet further inquiry. “Lieutenant Hammerly, have there been any ships launched from the spaceport since my departure?”

“No, sir,” Hammerly replied from his position at the primary sensor console. 

“Very good.” Thrawn seemed pleased, the same suggestion of a smile on his face that you knew well. “And Commander, have you noticed the patterns in your study of the shipments from Lothal, Kessel, and Crait?” 

“It’s a pattern, sir,” Eli said, “but it’s not the same one as before.”

“And the tibanna?” 

“Also not the same.” 

“Commodore,” the Admiral continued, turning to face the stoic Faro. “Are the reports I asked for prepared?” 

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Would you like me to pull them up?”

“If you would, please.” 

You stared between the officers as they all spoke, glance always traveling back to Thrawn. You had positively no idea whatsoever what the kriff he was on about, nor did anything he’d asked almost any of the others hold any meaning for you— except, maybe, the fact that apparently there were two different patterns they were dealing with, which hearkened back to Eli’s comment that they were meeting with two different factions of insurgency. 

What in the seven hells _you_ had to contribute to any of it, there was no telling. 

“Thank you, Commodore,” Thrawn said as the holoprojector proceeded to light up with a handful of graphs and images. The first image you saw, in fact, was one you recognized. 

“Laureate,” the Chiss said, turning at last to you. “You know what this is, I’m sure.” 

Normally, you would have followed you instinct to shrink as far away from this situation as possible. But something about Thrawn’s trust in you eased your nerves, and you glanced between him and the image. 

“It’s a Kalikori,” you replied. “A Twi’lek family heirloom piece.”

“And you know its market value?”

“Um, they’re pretty much worthless to anybody except the families they belong to.” 

“Very good.” He pressed a button on the control panel, and another image appeared. “And this?” 

You squinted at the next image. “That’s a piece by a famous Pau’an artist, Lorn Junee. I forget its name, but it’s one of a series he did following the end of the Clone Wars, and the Imperial occupation of Utapau.” 

“And how do you recognize it as such?” 

“There’s a consistent motif of the black and white, and certain marks which the artist himself said represented droids, Pau’ans, and the ocean under the planet’s crust. Also we stared at holos of them a lot in one of my art history classes.” 

“What about its market value?” His eyes glimmered a little at you, the little smile still on his face. 

“It’s… nearly priceless,” you said. “On the black market it could go for billions of credits, or something worth as much.”

“Excellent.” Thrawn changed the holo again, this time showing another image you didn’t so much recognize as it was unmistakable. 

“A Hutt bust, obviously,” you said. “No idea which one, though.” 

Thrawn’s smile seemed to shift a little conspiratorially. “This one was recently stolen. The Hutt cartel has since launched what amounts to an investigation into the underground markets, looking for the thief.” 

“So this one’s mostly only valuable to the Hutts, especially whichever one commissioned it.” You chewed the inside of your cheek for a moment. “I don’t know if the Hutts deal in credits, though.” 

“But you do know that they deal in spice, and price-gauge things like doonium and tibanna,” he said. “I’m sure this gives a clear indication of its rough value.” 

“Yes, sir,” you nodded. 

“Grand Admiral, what is the point of—”

“A moment, Captain,” Thrawn said, firm and decisive. Hammerly fell into a chastened silence, but his brow was still wrinkled in confused irritation. “Now, can you tell me how and why someone might disrupt these three art trades, one of which appears not to be a trade at all?” 

You frowned, once again letting your eyes dart between the Chiss and the holoprojector. The stares of the others on the bridge burned into your awareness from all sides.

“Well, someone stole the Hutt bust,” you murmured. "I assume to incite the, um, frustration of the cartel. Since their art is particular to their own sense of legacy, even just the theft of one bust would probably piss all the families off.” You knew that because of Thrawn himself, of course, from your conversation a few nights before.

“Yes,” Thrawn said with a minute nod. Encouraged, you looked back at the holo. 

_What else could a pissed off Hutt cartel do?_

“That might cause a lot of disruptions in the black markets for… well, everything. Including all the things you just mentioned, especially if the Hutts suspect a business partner of theirs of stealing the bust. If they’re angry or just trying to force information, they could withhold shipments of something like doonium or spice.” You ran your knuckle over your chin, putting your other hand on your hip as you tried to think.

“And why?” asked Thrawn.

“If they wanted to frame one of the Hutt’s business partners, or steal the stalled shipment, or, yanno, they just wanted to watch the slugs squirm, maybe.” Shrugging, you worked hard to suppress a little smirk. Thrawn’s confidence was rubbing off on you, and why shouldn’t that be a reason? Plenty of beings in the galaxy enjoyed revenge, so maybe that was a perk of the more practical aspects of the whole thing. Over to the side, Faro stifled a chuckle. 

“What about the Pau’an piece?” The Admiral’s eyes glittered again, even more visibly this time. Your cheekiness didn’t appear to bother him in the slightest.

“Oh, well, if that one’s missing there’s no reason to believe someone didn’t just steal it for the same reasons all priceless pieces like that are stolen. To fence it, or make copies. Though, fencing a piece that famous can be less than fruitful. It hasn’t been sold in years, so I’m not even sure who had it.”

Thrawn’s smile was still drifting towards the sly, which you felt sure meant he wasn’t going to give you any other hints. “And the Kalikori?” 

“Unless it was taken from some famous Twi’lek family as a trophy, by an enemy maybe, I’m… not sure,” you said, joviality fading as you realized there was some big piece of the puzzle missing. _He wants me to connect all three of these, but how?_ “Will you go back to the Kalikori?” 

Obligingly, Thrawn pressed the button that brought the projection of the Twi'lek heirloom back up. Stepping closer to it, you eyed the symbols on it closely. “Wish I could see the colors better,” you muttered to yourself. “But… wait. That symbol.” You pointed to one that was painted and maybe also carved into one of the dangling pieces. 

“Do you know it?” he asked, still appearing totally confident in your abilities. 

“I’ve seen it before.” In fact, you’d seen it _recently._ But for the life of you, no memory came up clear enough for you to recall where. “That’s some generations down from the primary body of the piece, and it’s not as aged, so it would be pretty recently added. Show me the Pau’an one again?” 

The holo flickered, and there it was— almost. “It’s so close to that symbol, the one that only shows up in red in most of Junee’s pieces from that time. It represents the dead Imperial troops.” 

“Quite often the Empire is depicted using red in the art of many beings,” Thrawn commented. “Whereas any local resistance, present or past, is often shown in yellow or orange. Except on Mandalorian worlds, where it’s more often blue.” 

_Blue._ It jolted your memory like lightning. The painting in Thrawn’s office, the one that was full of neon and wild, abrasive energy. There was a symbol at its center that was almost the same as the one that was on both the Kalikori and the Pau’an painting. Even with the alterations, three was a pattern.

“Protest art,” you murmured, eyes landing back on Thrawn. “Twi’lek have always resisted the Empire, and the Republic and Separatists before that. Lorn Junee died in Imperial custody. But that doesn’t explain the Hutt bust being stolen.” _Kriff, what am I missing? The Hutts don’t exactly protest the Empire… because the Empire doesn’t exactly disrupt their business, even if maybe it should. I mean, they still deal in glitterstim spice, and stolen Mandalorian weapons, and slaves… Twi’lek slaves._

Thrawn saw your face light up as your brain finally connected the dots, albeit with a gossamer thread. One of his stern brows lifted by a hair, as though he was waiting for you to explain yourself. 

“Er, well, the Hutts deal in a lot of items— or, even beings,” you added, slightly too uncomfortable to say the word _slaves_ just yet, “from Ryloth and Mandalore. And, the Junee piece is right in their jurisdiction too. Could be that someone is trying to weaken the Hutts, turn people against them and then turn the Hutts, too, by stealing the bust. But why would anybody want to do that?” 

“It does seem like criminal and insurgent squabbles, sir,” Faro pointed out. “Not like a coordinated effort on the part of any cell directed against the Empire.” 

“Unless all of the stolen artwork we have just taken note of were to reappear in the hands of the Empire, of course,” Thrawn said coolly. “Then, it would seem like a coordinated effort on our part to divide these beings while also profiting, or planning to profit, from the exploitation of their artifacts.”

“By reselling the Junee piece, brokering a deal with the Hutt cartel, and holding the Kalikori for ransom,” you said, fitting the pieces together. “Or, just keeping the Kalikori, since it would be symbolic of dominance over a famously insurgent planet.” 

“Why would someone working for the Empire do that?” Eli asked, frowning. “Surely that’s not a direct order from the Emperor, sir. It’s too convoluted for his tastes.” 

“No, it was not an order from the Emperor, nor anyone else in high command. Nevertheless, they have all been found in the hands of an Imperial officer,” replied Thrawn.

“Who?” Faro asked, her frown deepening.

“Governor Gideon, it would seem. Though, he claims he does not know how the pieces ended up in his office.” 

Eli’s eyes widened. “So _that’s_ why he asked us to come here.” 

“Indeed.” Thrawn looked pleased with all of the people he’d gathered there on the bridge, including you. His secret, of course, was that he’d already guessed all of this— as he’d mentioned in his quarters. But now he had proof, and statistics, and data. He could present his case to the rest of high command, and the Emperor himself if necessary, and pursue the originator of the whole scheme. “Now, I must assemble this report fully and prepare it to be presented to Coruscant. Laureate,” he added rather unexpectedly, “if you would be so kind as to accompany me to my office, I require your expertise on one final piece of art which may be of some significance as well.” 

The way his eyes lit on you made your insides shiver, the lurking sense of predacious interest there beneath his perfectly cordial address. He held his hand out towards the exit.

“Of course, Grand Admiral,” you said, feeling your face get warm. 

“Orders, sir?” asked Eli, who looked less confused all of a sudden and maybe just a little smug. 

“Return to your duties until I relay further orders,” Thrawn replied, not even glancing back at them as he turned to walk alongside you down the length of the command deck. “And, if Governor Gideon gets anxious, please reassure him that I am excluding his name from the report and that I will send it to him for review once it is completed. I am not to be interrupted until that time.” 

“Yes, sir,” Faro and Eli replied almost in unison. And then, you were being swept away down the polished hall to the entrance of Thrawn’s office. 

You lingered very close to the door as the Chiss filed in behind you, turning to leave his key inside the lock with a red light blinking on the console. There was no reason to be so proximal to him, other than the fact that you simply wanted to, of course. He seemed to echo your desires, because he rounded on you to lean forward and capture your eyes with his own. 

“Sir, I don’t understand why—”

“I asked you onto the bridge, just now?” he finished for you, voice a low coo. “Because if an educated civilian with no in-depth knowledge of these missions could make the logical connections between the pieces that were found, then my argument was cemented. The random data is no longer random.” Now, one of his fingers rose up to trail along your jawbone up to your ear. “You were perfect, _euhn in'a._ ”

“But you already told me about the thefts,” you protested weakly, feeling your body start to quiver at just how close he was, his tease of a touch, the way he smelled. “So you kinda cheated…”

“I could have shared this information with you during that meeting,” he said, “but it would have taken a great deal longer. I suspected I might not last.” 

“Last?” 

“Look out there.” His red gaze flickered behind you, and you turned enough to see the planet of Ryloth on its barely detectable spin below you. It was beautiful in a way that made your breath hitch just a little, and you found yourself straying closer to Thrawn’s desk to look at it. He was right behind you, one hand on the small of your back as if to guide you right up to the edge of the table. 

“Oh,” you sighed, but before you could say something about how lovely the view was, your breath hitched again and twice as hard. Thrawn’s face was pressed against your neck from behind, his breath curling hot against your skin. 

“You deny yourself credit, Laureate,” he murmured very, very close to your ear. “Your intelligence is second only to your creativity. You guessed a great many things without the evidence I have been seeking since that piece showed up in my hold.” 

Your eyes flickered over to the painting on the wall, the neon one. With the blue symbol on it, that apparently meant it was Mandalorian protest art. Your curiosity tried to spike, but your head was already thick with desire. 

“They… they’re targeting you, aren’t they…” The logic made sense, though you couldn’t have explained it at that moment as Thrawn’s warm hand slid up under your paint-covered shirt to stroke your belly and send a ripple of anticipation through you. But why would anyone make art their primary focus, if not to get his special attention? You certainly had enough of it at that moment to make your vision start to blur. 

“So clever,” he purred. His hand was moving deftly, and it took you a moment to realize that he’d already slipped the front of your trousers open. When he landed on your clit, you keened softly. It was already so stiff, your body already responding to him…

 _Symbiotic synchronization._ As though you’d needed any help being wildly attracted to this man, the apparent bond between the two of you he’d mentioned the last time you’d shared a bed was at work. It took his hand coming between your cunt and the fabric of your pants for you to realize how wet you already were, how much you ached for him. 

“Maker!” you gasped as he dragged two fingers through the slick to cradle your bud and stroke it at a pace that jolted through you. When he ground his hips into your ass, you could feel his cock already emerging from its alien protective tissue, throbbing against you. 

Well, maybe there was a point to the synchronization. His size was still impressive, but this time you noticed even more that the _shape_ was what made him imposing. Its heavy, blunt end was the first thing that had to enter you— but once you were adjusted to that, the rest of him simply hit places no other lover had. The sheer escalation of your arousal was certain to make that whole process a lot less complicated than it had been the first time. And that thought alone pulsed between your thighs, making its own addition to the mess you were becoming. You mewled as his fingers rubbed circles over your clit, pushing your ass back into him hungrily.

This seemed to prompt him to depart from your swollen bud and instead push two fingers deep inside you, curling them expertly as you gasped and leaned back against him.

“Are you ready to take me again, _euhn in'a?_ ” he asked you, no growl yet in his throat, perfectly calm even as his entire length was free and demanding at your back. For a moment you almost couldn’t speak, the radiant sensation of his fingers making your thighs shake.

“Yes, please, sir!” you replied. With that, he pushed you gently downwards to bend over the desk. His other hand moved to push your trousers down, pull their unwelcome barrier away. It took almost no time at all for him to undo his own uniform and guide the ponderous head of his cock up against your entrance, but every second was starting to take an eternity. You pushed back against him, slipping its bulbous tip between your folds. But he pulled away enough that you couldn’t push farther, and the pressure of his hand on your back increased to pin you to the desk.

“Oh, sweet thing,” he cooed, and there was the first hint of ferocity in his voice. “You must be so desperate.” 

“Siiir,” you whined. “I need you inside me!” 

“ _Need,_ already,” he tutted. He moved his cock up and down your slit, running over your peaking clit a few times to listen to the stuttering little moans it drew from your lips. But, before you could issue another protest, he shifted again and began to push inside you. 

The tremor that shook your whole body as he did wasn’t even remotely akin to pain; it was the most intense feeling, profound pleasure that coupled itself with the still-urgent need that pulsed in your guts. At first it froze your voice, but as he reached the part of your inner walls that pressed up against the most sensitive point, your moan broke out louder than you’d expected. Immediately he stopped, and his huge blue hand came around to stick the still-wet fingers he’d been sliding around in your cunt into your mouth, rubbing them against your tongue. 

“You must be a little quieter, this time,” he ordered you as softly as he could around the way his voice scraped inside his throat, close to your ear. All you could do was issue a muffled whine and try to nod. “Very good,” he said, pushing himself in deeper. Already you were braced with your hands on the table, knees weak with the pressure. His praise was enough to melt you even further. 

Thrawn’s thrusts were slow at first, and not too hard. You could hear the whispers of his growls as he restrained himself, felt the tension in his hands as he held you just so. He was working very, very hard not to tear your apart— and part of you wished your mouth was free to yell at him not to bother, even as another part of you knew that he was saving you some soreness by doing as much. _Some_ soreness. The rest was inevitable, and that didn’t bother you at all. 

When he started to pick up speed, he also picked up the power behind each rut, and your first orgasm was already wound up within you, building and building at breakneck pace as he continued to stroke your tongue with his fingers that tasted of your own juices. His low snarl did it, broke the dam on that shattering heat that pushed it way out of you— or tried, but with his cock where it was, it was almost like you couldn’t expel the tension in your muscles fast enough. He hissed as you clamped down around him like a vice, his grip on you tightening.

“Little thing,” he growled, slipping his fingers out of your mouth at last so he could take you by the jaw and lean forward to breathe against your ear once again. “Is this what you desired?” 

“Y-yessir,” you bleated helplessly, realizing that you were utterly limp as a second orgasm was already twisting itself up inside you and his thrusts and the pressure of his hands were all that held you against the table. As he bent, his cock seemed to sink in deeper somehow— maybe it was the pressure changing, because you were pretty sure there was no way in hell you could yield any more space in your guts for him.

“Good.” As his position changed, so did his thrusts— quicker, harder, not as drawn out. You sputtered, hands trying to claw the surface of the desk in vain as the wet sounds of him fucking you filled the office. 

“F-fuck— _Thrawn—_ ”

“So good,” he murmured, calm despite his own collared hunger. “Keeping quiet when I can hear the scream inside you. Do you need my help staying quiet again, _euhn in'a?_ ”

“Yeeees,” you keened. Just as you felt the next edge approach, Thrawn slid his fingers back into your mouth to muffle the howl that burst out of you seconds after. Again you felt yourself try to contract around a cock that made it difficult to do so, dragging out the pulsating ripples of your orgasm as you sobbed around his digits. 

He picked up his speed quite suddenly, and then all that magnificent pressure vanished as he withdrew and you felt warmth bloom out over your ass. Somehow he never made more than a little growl or snarl, some feral and yet still profoundly mitigated sound of Chiss release. Then, he released your mouth and let you sag down onto the desk, adrift in your fog of bliss. 

Whatever he was doing when he moved away, he wasn’t gone long. You felt the gentle swipe of a cloth against your skin as he cleaned you up, followed by his hand splaying out over your back under your shirt. It was a long, lazy, soothing stroke that caused you to sigh and shut your eyes, feeling the last of your tension drain.

“We cannot linger too long,” he said softly even as he let you slump there for a moment, still rubbing your back. “I do have a report to finish, though most of it is already assembled.”

“Did you have something to look at?” you asked blearily, the words heavy. “Some art you wanted to talk about?”

“The only art I needed to see at that moment was you, _euhn in'a,_ ” he replied, voice cool and yet still sweet. You felt your face turn hot, and you stifled your embarrassed giggle. 

“Oh,” was all you managed. Gently, Thrawn’s hands pushed between you and the desk to lift you back upright and against his broad chest, holding you there with his nose leaned against your temple. 

“I must get this business with Gideon finished,” he said, almost to himself. “You will not long be safe here, I’m afraid.” 

That put a stone in your belly. “What?”

“You were right when you said they were targeting me. I will not allow you to come to harm.” 

“What about you?” you asked, suddenly turning your head with huge eyes desperate to meet his. Their red glow was soft, reassuring, implacable. 

“I will locate these rebels and eliminate their efforts,” he said simply. There was nothing ferocious about it; in his voice, this was no more than fact. You felt yourself swoon a little, moved as always by the absolute certainty so singular to the Admiral. 

“Alright,” you murmured, turning more fully towards him. 

“How much longer do you need to finish this portrait, Laureate?” he asked. 

“Maybe four more hours?” you guessed. That was close enough, or maybe a little generous, but more time was better than less. 

“I can give you that over the next three days. But you must return to Coruscant afterwards, for your own safety.” There it was again— regret, audible and clear. His hand stroked your cheek as he gazed down at you, and what was once a totally inscrutable expression now radiated his regard, his protectiveness, his admiration. Though it seemed gentle and lacked the desperation that many humans seemed to always have, it was there. You stared back at him, mesmerized, more than a little awed. 

“I understand,” you replied, voice very quiet. _My three weeks is up anyway,_ you thought. It was an odd mix, the sense of mutual captivation combined with the lingering, bitter promise of your parting.

“I would very much like to see you in my quarters tonight,” he said, leaning just a little closer. 

“When should I arrive?” 

“As soon as you would like, after dinner.” 

You nodded. “I’ll be there by 1900.” 

He didn’t respond for a moment, only kept your gaze held in his. Then, as though deciding there was no more important word to be said, he leaned down to kiss you so gently that you melted against him, reaching up to touch his face. Despite his words of hurry, he took his time laying that tender caress over you, and you felt utterly, amazingly safe in his arms. 

That feeling you’d had the last time, the sense that you were in a lot deeper than your earliest errant little desires could ever have predicted, stole over you again. But you let it stay in the unspoken place it welled up from, hoping against all probability that it wasn’t just the heart of an artist readying itself to break yet again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artist got to be all smart today!! Thrawn thinks it's hot ;)


	20. expressionism

The light inside the studio, once the most familiar of settings, feels strange after all your time aboard the _Chimaera._ The portrait is set up in the place it always had been before— or close enough to it, at least— and the roof’s cover was half-extended, muting the sunlight of Coruscant as it streamed in just a little. 

He was on his way, and such a conundrum of conflicting emotions was battering your brain about it. Of course, you were ecstatic to see him again. The memory of your last night on the ship was pushing the blood through your body faster than usual, filling you with warmth. 

_“Sir,” you almost whispered, gazing up at him from where you nestled in his arms in the slowly ebbing aura of post-coital contentment. The feeling that had disturbed that content was one you’d been suppressing for so long, and his hand stroking your back gently as your entwined bodies pressed close had finally drained the last dwindling reserves of resistance you had._

_It was about to be over, after all._

_“Yes, Laureate?” he asked in his soothing voice, the red gleam of his eyes casting down towards you._

_“I…” But your voice caught in your throat, gripped still by the embarrassment you couldn’t help but feel. “The portrait’s not quite done yet.”_

_“Do you require a final session when I’m next available to come to Coruscant?” he asked, anticipating your question._

_“I would appreciate that,” you replied, voice softening. The joy that rose up as he spoke was mitigated almost instantly by the realization that you were on your last possible thread of a good reason to see him ever again, after that. “It doesn’t need to be a full session—”_

_“Shh,” he hushed you gently, placing a finger over your lips in a way that always subdued you in a strangely exciting way. “_ Euhn in'a, _you need not worry. As I cannot yet know how soon such a visit can take place, I have resolved that it will be a longer one. Overnight, perhaps, if that is agreeable to you.”_

_Your heart thudded loudly in your ears. “Of course,” you breathed, smiling. “As long as you like.”_

_“Lovely,” he said, giving his own faint little smile in return. “You’ve been here, in my world. I look forward to getting to know your world a little better.”_

_Suddenly the glow that had fled you earlier was back tenfold, and you reached up to gently tow his face towards yours, shifting just a little to press your lips against his. One of his arms was around your back, and it gripped you a little tighter as his other hand trailed down your body, over your hip, then back up making for the apex of your thighs…_

The pang of arousal that washed over you was wholly involuntary; that connection between your bodies, the one he said was a function of Chiss biology, would probably hold its sway over you forever. 

At the same time, you were still aware of the fact that there was no reason for you to expect this wouldn’t be your last time together. All the boldness that had crept over you while you’d been on his ship, all the genuine and pleasant support from Eli, was drained now that you were acutely aware of your place in the grand scheme of the Empire once again. This studio was nice enough, but it was hardly on par with a Grand Admiral’s concerns. 

But, the time was close. That question, the question of propriety and continuing your relationship, would have to wait. For now, the job was the focal point of your afternoon. You looked over the portrait once more, noting the list of minutiae you wanted to correct or complete to your liking today. Feeling in your guts that it wasn’t quite right yet; something was off, but it was annoyingly difficult to spot. 

“Laureate, the Grand Admiral has arrived,” came C4-10’s voice over the comm. Ripping your eyes away from the painting and trying to steady your heartbeat, you went over to the wall panel. 

“Alright, I’m ready,” you replied. 

The moments between when you entered the foyer and when the door slid open again were wrought with indecision— you wanted to kiss him immediately, but suddenly things were different. They were of the old ways once more, the ways that pressured you into totally professional decorum. But the energy between the two of you was vastly different now, and it was difficult to account for that shift. 

“Ah, it is very good to see you again, Laureate,” Thrawn said as he stepped through the door and it slid shut behind him. “I hope you are well.” 

You stared at him for just a moment, taking in the image of him in his white uniform and black boots, the elegance of his cheekbones and the boldness of his red eyes. “Yes, sir, I’m very well,” you said. “How are you?”

“Today I am better than I have been for some time. There has been some turmoil in the Outer Rim, but it is quelled for the time being.” His smile is lurking at the corner of his mouth, not so readable but no longer ineffable to you. “Shall we begin?” 

“Of course.” And you half-turned to let him fall in beside you. Together you walked into the studio, and he cast around it as he always did.

“Have you begun anything new since last we met?” he asked, cool and observant as ever. 

“A few things, actually,” you said. “I’m hoping to turn them into a series. Ideally they’ll be shown together once they’re all done.”

“That sounds splendid. Perhaps, after you are finished, you might show them to me.”

That warmed your cheeks, just like it always had. “Sure, I’d be happy to.”

The urge to touch him was intense, almost unbearable, but you abstained through sheer force of will. That, and it seemed like his usual approach of business first and pleasure later was in full force here. He took up his seat, and you yours. 

At first, there was a long stretch of silence that was almost uncomfortable. Whether that was because your heart was beating more and more in your cunt or because you still couldn’t pinpoint exactly what looked off about his portrait, you remained unsure. But one by one your mental notes vanished as you completed them, and the end was drawing near.

“I have missed watching you work, Laureate,” Thrawn said suddenly into the quiet. Freezing, you looked up at him. His expression was soft, fond in his strange way. The relief and tenderness that washed over you when you saw it was intense. 

“I… thank you, sir. I’ve missed having you watch me, to be honest.” You looked at the ground a little sheepishly, dunking your brush into the turpentine to swish it around. 

“It seems as though you’re quite close to finishing,” he said. “Is that correct?”

“How did you know?” you asked. His smile, the one you knew, appeared.

“There is an expression you make when you’re pleased with the outcome of something you’ve rendered,” he began, “and I have seen that expression many more times than usual, this session. As though every piece is coming together just as you desire it to.”

Your whole body flooded with the warmth of his observation, the tenderness of his attention. “Oh,” you murmured, flushing again. “I… suppose you’re right. It’s very close to finished.” 

“Pray continue,” he urged. “I look forward to seeing it done.” 

“Yes, sir.” Brush in the paint, eyes flickering between his soft smile and the canvas, and the flick of the brush over layers and layers of careful work. Something in his expression, you thought. It was _so_ close…

And then, you saw it. Just a slight adjustment of the brow, a few strokes of the fine-point brush. The paint seemed to resist being applied any more, and your hand stalled midair. There he was, the Grand Admiral in all his regal command. Your hand dropped, and you sat back for one last once-over. But some pieces told you when they were perfect, and this one was completely so. 

“Now that,” mused Thrawn after a few moments, “is an expression I’ve never seen before.” 

“It’s done,” you replied quietly. “It’s… well, you’re free to come see for yourself.”

He moved off of the stool with a brief, lithe motion and made his way beside you, folding his arms behind his back and gazing quietly. You’d expected to be nervous about him really looking it over— portraits were like that, considering how much people wanted to see themselves a particular way. But there was something so bespoke about this one that you only felt the distant echo of anxiety asking why you weren’t nervous. 

“Laureate,” he said softly after some time, “your skills are beyond commendable. This is an exceptional portrait.” 

“Thank you, sir,” you whispered in reply, hesitant to meet his face. From anyone else those words might seem almost curt, but from Thrawn they were the highest compliment. Besides, you weren’t sure what he was referring to— did it look like him in the way he wanted it to? Had he even desired a particular outcome? Was he referring to your technical skills, so painstakingly developed, or to the emotion rendered by the piece? 

Because to you, it was the face of a man who was full of confidence, determination, and… a strange kind of near-gentleness? Something so close to loving, it frightened you to consider. 

And then it hit you. This would not do at all. 

“Kriff,” you muttered under your breath, shutting your eyes. “Kriff, kriff, kriff, _kriff._ ”

“What is the matter, Laureate?” Thrawn asked, turning towards you with the suggestion of concern on his face. 

“It… ugh. This is so ridiculous,” you groaned, rubbing your face. “I know for a fact that Tarkin won’t like it.” 

“Why should he not?” 

“Because. It’s not… how do I phrase this.” You chewed your lip for a moment, frustration bubbling up and making it hard to chase down words. “It’s not intimidating enough. It’s not proud. It’s not… it’s too... _kind,_ next to all the others.” Shaking your head, you looked back up at him. “I painted what I saw. You’re just the only person who’s ever shown me something other than what they wanted on a wall representing them. You showed me… I dunno. Something else.”

“Were the others unkind to you?” he asked, voice soft, eyebrow raised a curious fraction. 

“No— well. Some of them were. But that’s not the point,” you said. “I… know you too well. I didn’t paint a Grand Admiral. I painted _you._ Not that you’re not a Grand Admiral, but—”

“It’s alright,” he stopped you gently. “I understand.”

_Does he understand, though? Does he understand that I painted someone I’ve fallen in love with? Oh, kriff me. I’m so stupid._

Your eyes fell back towards the floor. “I’ll have to tweak it again, just a little, before I send it. Make it more… stern, or something.” 

“You may do whatever you must to be certain of the job at hand, Laureate. I have faith that you will give the Grand Moff what he desires, and I will not be offended at any changes you feel necessary.” 

“Thanks,” you murmured, hand on your cheek. It pained you to think of erasing that lovely expression, the one you knew held power yet also held the understanding of someone who would never abuse such a power. You’d have to take a holo to remember it by, or something. A pale shade of the real thing, of course, but still. 

“May I ask you something?” The low timbre of his voice drew your slightly forlorn gaze. 

“Yes, sir?”

“You once told me that a portrait expresses as much about its painter as it does about its subject,” he said. “I see what it is about myself you have brought out, here. But what of you?” 

You went stiff, suddenly acutely aware of how intimate this moment had become. Your feelings were buried for a reason, and this whole to-do had just ripped the cover off of them. Blood rushed to your face, and you blinked.

“Um,” you said eloquently. “I… well. I, uh. I think…” Stammering was something you’d always run the risk of around a sufficiently intimidating client, but you hadn’t stammered like this around him even in the early days. You took a quick but deep breath. “I think I just, you know, I painted someone I admire very much. Someone who, like you said, was kind to me. Someone I feel, um, very strongly towards, I guess.” 

His red eyes studied you as was their wont, and there was something unusual in his expression that was difficult to make out. You found yourself lowering your head, staring at his shoes as you worried your paint cloth in your hands. _I’m an idiot of the absolute worst kind,_ you thought. _I have been from the start. I know he cares about me, but—_

A familiar finger was on your chin, lifting it up ever so calmly. The sensations of desire and fear blended into a mess in your guts, the touch igniting your body like a flame even as you dreaded the possibility that he might find you as foolish as you found yourself in that moment.

“ _Euhn in'a,_ ” he cooed. “I have missed you.” 

You stared back at him as he held your gaze. “Oh,” you breathed. “I… I missed you, too, sir.” 

“Not sir,” he said, a very soft chide in his voice.

“I’ve missed you, Thrawn,” you corrected yourself, feeling your insides turn into goo as he smiled and a flicker of pure adoration crossed his features. 

“Perhaps a brief pause before you return to the work is in order.”

Oh, Maker, there it was. Your thighs wobbled a little. “Yeah…” 

He was already leaning down, hovering his face within an inch of yours, pulling electricity up from your center to dance under your skin. The way energy was already arcing between your bodies, it felt like you were already so wet it was soaking your trousers. 

If his kiss had presumed to start out gently, it soon gave up all pretense. The most passionate tug of war between your mouths to-date had Thrawn maneuvering you away from the painting and the beams of sunlight streaming in from the windows, towards the work tables where various projects of yours were laid out in their usual mid-creation disarray. Your hands ran over the fabric of his uniform, his gripping your hips with more urgency than you’d ever felt from him. You palmed his crotch, immediately aware of how much his cock had already begun to protrude from its protective shell. 

Then, his hand clamped around your wrist to still your motions. “So hasty,” he said in a growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

“But—”

“Wouldn’t you like to enjoy it?” 

Your heart skipped. “Of course, sir.” 

“Then take a knee, sweet thing.” 

It was an order wrapped in doting, and despite the way your body had begun to ache you felt excitement clamber through your veins. This was new ground for you, something he hadn’t allowed while on the ship. Always ‘adjusting to your body’ was the reason he gave for it. You assumed it had something to do with his not desiring to cut your pleasure off, with making himself last longer or something like that. But now your hands helped his ease the front of his trousers open while you kneeled to bring yourself eye-level with his throbbing cock.

“Oh, sir,” you breathed. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, ever the gentleman when you were the one adjusting to _his_ body.

The heat of its tip as you wrapped your mouth around it was amazing, the taste of it in your mouth unlike anything you could easily describe in that moment. You took your time, running your tongue from slit to tip to see if you could find the places where his maddeningly even breaths would hitch just a little. You’d adjusted to his shape and size, the elegant flare of his head tapering to the thick base of where his shaft emerged from within, while on the _Chimaera._ But having been away from him for a while and not particularly inclined to seek out any new lovers yet, he felt huge all over again. 

That wouldn’t stop you, you decided. Taking him into your mouth, you slowly unhinged your jaw as much as you could to start bobbing back and forth. Your fingers gripped his base, feeling more and more ecstatic as you felt him twitch and slowly push farther and farther out under your ministrations. You looked up and saw his glowing red eyes staring down at you under heavy lids. 

It didn’t take long for him to strike the back of your throat exactly as you expected. You gagged a little, but not enough for it to be unpleasant. His hand came down to stroke your cheek.

“Are you alright?” he asked, a slight strain in his voice. You nodded, blinking up at him, letting your throat adjust for a moment before you started moving again. You felt the ridges along the top of his cock against your palm as you worked him. At last, he was showing signs of fluster; mouth slightly open showing gritted teeth, breath slightly harder, hand slowly gripping your face to guide it along faster and faster. You slipped one hand up under his uniform jacket, running fingers over the tight muscles of his stomach. 

Then he stopped you, pulling out of your mouth to haul you up to your feet again with both hands on your face. Bringing you close, the growl was on his breath now.

“Turn around,” he said. You didn’t bother to respond, simply moving to put your hands on the work table between the sheets of watercolor paper and a nearby paint palette. Huge, warm hands slid your trousers down over your ass, and his cock throbbed wet against you.

“Kriff,” you gasped as a finger slid around your entrance for a moment before slipping inside you. “Thrawn, please—”

“Shhh,” he hushed you as he put another, then a third finger in beside the first and began to pump them up against your walls, turning them to seek the spot he knew would start you on the path to ruin. “Still as needy as ever.”

“But I know you want me, too!” you protested with a whine, bending more sharply over the table to emphasize the way your ass pushed up and back towards him.

“Of course I do,” he said. His hand moved in some way that struck gold, and you mewled as pleasure washed over you. “I want you desperate. It seems to aid you in expressing your desires.” 

“I _want_ you inside me, if that’s what you’re asking,” you retorted in a bit of a huff— or as much of one as you could summon around the way he dug at your insides. “I want you to fuck me _so_ bad, Thrawn. I’ve never wanted anything more!” 

A growl came over him again. “As you wish, _euhn in'a._ ”

Then the head of him was pressed against you as he eased forward. It took so much less time than the first time, now that your bodies were so intuitively linked, for his girth to find its way deeper and deeper in. You shook, mouth falling open as you moaned and everything lit up inside you. 

“Oh! Maker, yes!” you cried, hands gripping fingertips against the smooth table surface. “I— I missed you _so_ much—”

His pace tried as valiantly as his kiss had to be easy at first, but there was nothing for it. Soon he was fucking you robustly, and the table beneath you shook on its less-than-perfectly-even legs as tubes of paint rattled around on top of it. Thrawn took your chin in his hand and bent over you to push his nose into your ear, and there was no way he didn’t feel your entire body quake at the heat of his breath. 

Then an actual hiss came from between his teeth, and he pulled away very suddenly to haul you back up again. Before you could respond, he was turning you around to lay you down on the table in spite of the materials laid out there. He swung your legs up and yanked your trousers off to splay you wide open and pin your knees on either side of your head. 

“Shit!” you yelped as he took a nose dive into your drenched cunt, wrapping his lips around the hard, insistent peak of your clit. “Oh— aaaah—”

It was merciless, the way he pinned you there and worked you with his mouth. Your hands tried for the edge of the table as a place to anchor your need to hang onto something, pushing paper and paint out of the way as they did. His tongue slipped inside you to rim your entrance before he took back to your nub, switching between the two pleasure points until you were so wound up you thought you might explode. 

“Thrawn— _please—!_ ”

Acquiescing finally, he trained himself on your clit and stared up at you. That look, the absolute blaze of his eyes sent you over the edge as he suckled you to orgasm. Lightning ripped through your body and you shook in his grip, clit pulsing in his mouth as your eyes rolled back and you keened. The sounds of your release filled the studio, echoing off the high walls. 

And he was back up, releasing your legs as he bent over you and kissed you hungrily, cock throbbing against your folds. You whimpered into his mouth— and moaned loudly into it when his broad head made its way inside you again. 

_Fuck— I_ just _came—!_ But it didn’t matter, he was already rutting up deep inside you, starting the whole process over again before your first climax could even begin to wind down. Your nerves screamed in delight as your muscles started to wrap tight around his girth. His mouth never left yours, swallowing your noises as though they had a substance of their own.

Hands slid up under your shirt, working the buttons open so they might wrap around your ribs and tease your nipples as your skin was exposed to the studio air. You decided you weren’t the only one who was about to be naked, and started to undo the clasps of his uniform jacket. Thrawn let you slip it off, even helped you along, without once breaking his rhythm. Then the undershirt he doffed himself, only breaking your kiss long enough to shed it. 

You almost didn’t notice his hands beginning to snake around you, lifting you up from the table’s surface. Until his incredible strength was raising you entirely off of it, of course, and his arms wrapped around you to pin you against him as he stood up. Wrapping your legs around him, the shift of positions put his cock up against your depths in a way that hit a whole new place. Your heart was pounding, arms going up around his neck to cling to him and keep him there in that spot. 

“That’s it!” you gasped as your mouths broke apart at last. “Fuck me— _right there—_ please—”

The fact that he was standing up and holding you, one arm around your back and the other under your ass as he thrust upward, struck you as so heart-stoppingly powerful that something twisted in your guts and you started to shake again. The coil inside you sprang open, clamping down around him as you pushed out another orgasm. You wailed, throwing your head back, and he didn’t stop. 

“Good little thing,” he growled, suddenly moving towards the pile of fabric that was partially draped over a low stool in the corner. A bunch of fresh cut flowers were arranged as part of it, something of a study you’d set up recently just to practice with painting on smaller canvases you had lying around. The paint was still there too, brushes and tubes all over the floor on the rest of the fabric where it bunched and draped and flowed all around. 

He was laying you down on the fabric with his cock still inside you, and there was already paint in his hair where you’d been clinging to him (from the other paints on the table, no doubt.) It was everywhere, you thought, and as he laid you out before him with flowers all around you, his hands left faint streaks of red and magenta and sky blue on your torso. Now you saw a few more places where paint was on him, on his arm and his chest, an emerald green and deep wine hue.

“Shit, the paint—”

“You are a work of art, _euhn in'a,_ ” he said, cutting off your concerns. “I love to see you here among the things you use to create.”

“Oh,” you sighed, staring with glazed eyes at him as your heart skipped a few beats. “Thrawn…”

Gripping you by the waist, he leaned his abdomen down and forward to let himself sink as deeply into you as he possibly could. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, lashes fluttering as you fisted the fabric around you on the floor. He started with deep, slow movements that dragged out the ballooning sensations within you ruinously. 

“You are so lovely,” he cooed, leaning back to watch himself fuck you in an indulgent way that you’d never seen from him before. The broad daylight left you exposed fully, but the way his eyes drank in the sight, how could you be self-conscious? 

“Thrawn,” you mewled again as he started to pick up speed just a little, “I… oh, Maker…”

Then his hand moved down to thumb your clit, and you shuddered profoundly at the way it sparkled hard and desperate at the touch. He drew wet circles around it without haste, and you began nearly to sob. 

“Yes, let it out, little thing. How does it feel?” he asked.

“ _Perfect!_ ” you replied, lip crumpling. “Oh, it’s so good, you fuck me _so_ good, sir!”

“Will you come for me, then?”

“Yes!” 

“Good,” he purred, picking up the speed of his thrust by another margin. “I love watching you come apart this way. I think of it often, and seeing it again like this is sublime.”

“Siiiir,” you wailed, “I need it harder, sir, please!” 

Instead of going faster, he simply punctuated his thrusts with more power. They struck home, then slid out easy, then struck again. Your eyes blew wide open, gasping with each one, legs falling limp on either side of you as your pelvic floor gathered all the tension left in your body. When his unoccupied hand came up to stroke against your cheek, your heart filled with warm, sticky adoration. Looking up at him through the haze, you saw his cheeks were actually flushed a little purple under their usual blue hue. 

“There you go,” he murmured, meeting your gaze as his hips continued to bounce into yours and his thumb started to move quicker. “That’s it.”

“S-sir...”

“Yes?”

“I… I’m so close…”

“What do you need?” 

“Just a little more… a little f-faster…”

His pace started to pick up again, and then it kept going. He was still holding your face, his upper body almost seemed not to move despite the sudden robust fucking his lower half was performing. You couldn’t look away from his eyes as he escalated everything, thumb starting to swipe back and forth rapidly over your clit.

“Thrawn!” you sobbed. “Yes! F-Fuck— Thrawn, I—”

“Come for me, _euhn in'a,_ ” he urged, his breaths suddenly coming in harder. “Come _with_ me.” 

At that, you gave in utterly. A convulsion rippled through your body, and you went limp but for the part of you that tried to consume him, to keep his cock trapped inside you forever if at all possible. The orgasm was massive, blossoming slowly until it claimed every part of your body and his thrusts got harder, fiercer, and the sound of his snarls filled your ears. His warm seed spilled inside you to herald the stutter and eventual collapse of his body over yours. 

Then he was close, propping himself up with his elbow now, cock still throbbing in your raw cunt. His breaths were heavy, washing over your neck as he leaned into it to place his open mouth against your delicate skin and leave it there. You were full of light, drowsy with bliss, slowly drifting down from the heights of your mutual orgasm. 

When he moved you around, you didn’t register it very well. But then you were curled up against him in the swaths of fabric, cradled in his arms. One of your very favorite places to be, it turned out. You laid there with his eyes watching your face, finger stroking your ear, neither of you saying a word for a long time. 

“Need a shower,” you murmured at length. Thrawn’s little smile appeared. 

“Don’t worry, Laureate. We shall surely clean up soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof thank you to everyone who checked in while i was out-- i went on vacay for my birthday and then fatigue spiked like crazy (maybe post-election exhaustion? i have no idea.) i deal with chronic fatigue and i have since 2017, so sometimes that happens and it can be hard to figure out exactly why. i'm feeling a little better now, and i'm stoked to wrap up these next few chapters!! i hope you love this one as much as i do!!  
> and i hope i did a half decent job editing it, i'm still tired and i hate re-reading only to find some editing goof xD oh well, we'll see!


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